


Quenta Narquelion

by bunn



Series: Fëanor refused the call of Mandos [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Belegost, Beleriand, Canon-Typical Character Deaths, Canon-Typical Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Elf Ghosts, Epic Battles, First Age, Found Family, Gap Filler, Gen, Giant dragons, Maps, Oath of Fëanor, Songs of Power, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:09:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 119,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: "...[Fëanor] died; but he had neither burial nor tomb, for so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke; and his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos."What if his spirit has never left the halls of Mandosbecause it never went there in the first place?Fëanor, dead, watches the First Age unfold, and his children endure. A detailed account of Maedhros and Maglor's time on the Eastern Front of the War of Wrath, with Elrond and Elros growing up.  [Thanks to pp for beta reading]





	1. Spirit of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> “The Fea is single, and in the last, impregnable. It cannot be brought to Mandos. It is summoned; and the summons proceeds from just authority, and is imperative; **yet it may be refused.** ” — Laws and Customs of the Eldar, p223 Morgoth’s Ring: History of Middle-earth Volume 10.
> 
> The original text of this document, written in what appears to be First-age Fëanorian Quenya, survives only in one badly damaged copy. Fortunately, at some point it was rebound with a better preserved translation of the text into Sindarin, with Westron annotations.
> 
> Despite the language, it is clear from the improbable and fantastical content that it is not as old as it appears. The document as a whole is considered to be a post-Gondorian forgery, or academic folly, though some historians have considered the detailed account of the Eastern Front of the War of Wrath may be taken from some older work. 
> 
> This is a reader’s edition rather than an academic text, and so in my translation, I have chosen to follow the Sindarin text, and use the familiar Sindarin form of names used by the lords of the Noldor: for example Maedhros throughout, where the Quenya text sometimes refers to Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, Russandol or occasionally wild inventions by the author that are unsupported by other texts. Some names are given in both texts in the Quenya form only, and these have been preserved as written. 
> 
> The title Quenta Narquelion can be translated “Tale of the Fire-fading” or “Story of Autumn” and is given only in Quenya.

His breath came short. Every movement of his chest, every jolt of the litter was agony. The axe of Gothmog, chief of Balrogs, had smashed most of his ribs. He could feel them cutting into him with every movement. 

The armour had turned the edges of the axes well. But the weight of them! It was more than Fëanor had thought was possible. They thudded into him like hammers, working him like red-hot metal, as the whips of fire cracked around him.

They’d beaten him too long. He coughed, and white pain shot through him: red stars filled his eyes. He was not so much tempered metal, as overworked and cracking: no use for anything any more.

The litter was tilting. They were going uphill now. It shifted his weight slightly, and suddenly he was acutely, terribly aware of the fractured hip. He could hear his own breath wheezing harshly. His mouth tasted of blood and iron. He fought to keep his eyes open, fought to hold onto awareness, fought over each breath as if his enemy had come to steal it. 

The mountain-path was steep. Looking out across the wide shadowy plain below, Fëanor could see the distant, looming mountain-wall, black against the starry sky, lit here and there with points of red fire. 

As he watched, a great bloom of flame erupted from the westernmost peak, dyeing the whole nearest wall of the mountain-fortress red. Then the flame died, and across the vast lower slopes uncountable numbers of tiny flames crawled across the black. The mountainside was fortified, terrace and cliff-wall, and every wall and door and peak was defended by armies clad in iron.

He had not realised that his enemy had prepared so well. He had thought that he was alone, save for Ungoliant, and perhaps a few servants. He had always been alone before, in Valinor. Fëanor had not imagined this great three-peaked mountain-fortress at the gate of Angband, defended by demons of fire and regiments of twisted slaves, backed by a vast unconquerable mountain wall. 

No force of the Noldor could hope to overcome such entrenched and overwhelming power. 

Breath by breath, jolt by jolt, Fëanor was losing the battle. He could feel his grip on life loosening. The pain was fading now, into grey mist, and it would have been welcome were it not for unfinished business. 

“Stop!” He could barely manage a whisper, but they heard him. The litter was set gently down upon the mountainside and they gathered before him, eyes bright under the stars, hiding the terrible peaks. His tall sons, strong and deadly. These at least would be loyal beyond question, loyal to the last.

“Curse...him,” he managed. Maedhros leaned forward, trying to hear. Fëanor summoned his remaining strength. “Curse him!”

“My dying curse... lies on my Enemy, and on his form and on all his power, “ he said. The curse steadied him, and he was able to manage a faint echo of the voice that had called them all out to follow him across the Sea. “I can stay no longer. I lay it on you, my sons, to hold to your oath. Repeat it now and avenge your father!”

“We will!” they said with one voice, and began to call out the words, defiantly. " _ Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer...” _

The pain and the greyness surged again, in nauseating alternate waves. Fëanor could not hold to his dying body any longer. He had said all there was to say. 

But Fëanor, of all the Noldor, had thought hardest and longest about death: about the choice that lay before him. Even the Valar could not take that choice from him. It was the gift of Eru. He did not simply let go. He waited for the wave, gathering every scrap of the fire of his spirit, every resource left in this broken body, and then he leaped. 

Behind him, stripped of everything that had held it together, his body fell to ash. High above, Fëanor hung against the stars, without form or weight. The dark wind blew through him, and he shivered automatically, before realising that shivering was no longer something he could do. 

Then he heard the summons, like a clear horn-call echoing out of the West. The call of Mandos, to return to Aman, to shelter in the Halls. He began, unthinking, to move towards it. Far below, the lamps carried by his sons and their people began to move again along the steep path up into the land the grey-elves called Hithlum. 

_ No.  _

He thought of of the Halls of Mandos, where the dead wait, unable to act, unable to make new things, unable to do anything but watch. Trapped into inaction, under the grim rule of Mandos, until the Valar should, perhaps, graciously choose to release them back to life. His mother was there, and now his father was gone behind those doors too. 

But they would not take  _ him _ . He had a choice, and his oath held him to his purpose, strong as a band of steel. Fëanor stopped, high above the open hillside. 

The horn-call sounded again, louder this time, more imperative. 

_ Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. _

That was what Mandos had said. A bleak fate for the king of the Noldor and their leader in rebellion. And for all the posturing of the Valar, for all their threats that their wrath would follow Fëanor and his sons wherever they went, they had no power to insist that he obey their summons. 

Fëanor turned away, looking out over the wide lands east of the mountains. One last time the summons sounded, and then it ceased. 

Unhindered by the material eyes of a body, it was strange how much more you could see. The land shone with a subtle sheen, as if the reflected starlight were many times brighter. Through it all, like a web, Fëanor could see the dark taint of Morgoth, spreading faint through shadow, rock and tree. Spiralling inward at last to the great three-headed mountain, it pulsed faintly when the volcano flared, and it was cold, colder than ice. 

It repulsed him. The bitter cold of Morgoth struck at him, biting painfully into the wounds that still showed on the spirit-echo of his body. He found himself moving west again without thinking, away from the sullen glow of the three-horned mountain. 

_ No. No. No. _ He would not go running back to the Valar, like a child with a broken toy — as if the Valar would do anything but imprison him, anyway. He would make his own way. His oath held him, giving him strength.

He was still a spirit of power, for all that he was unbodied. Perhaps they could not hope to overthrow the mighty fortress of Angband and bring down Morgoth at the heart of his power, not yet — but that did not mean giving up entirely. The Enemy was still only one person, no matter how great his power. 

 

* * * * *

The last of the pale Elf-lamps were disappearing over the pass, west into Hithlum. 

_ Let them go _ . He would carry the fight to the Enemy’s stronghold himself, alone. Let the Balrogs come: without a physical form to harm, his flame shone brighter than any of theirs. 

There on the mountainside, without tools, without needing any forge save his own fierce will, he fashioned a spirit-blade, made from the power of his vanished body, made from anger, skill and runes drawn upon the rock. The edge shone in the starlight with a bitter cold. 

He made no scabbard for it. He did not intend to need one. 

He swiftly crossed the shadowed flatlands that lay between Eithel Sirion and the lower slopes of Thangorodrim, and came at last to the great steep-walled valley that led deep into the mountainside, banded with black iron, and lit red with countless watching flames. 

Spreading through the still air, through the ground underfoot, the harsh, acidic taint of Morgoth was everywhere, becoming more solid, more and more an obstacle that he had to push through as he approached the iron gates. Despite himself, Fëanor’s pace slowed. 

Then the Balrogs came. They needed no physical form to find him. Now he was bodiless, he could see them as spirits of pure darkness, darker than the mountain-shadow. The flames that had attacked his body could not be seen. All the better. He lashed out at the first with his spirit-blade, leaving it stumbling in his wake, then cut the second clean in two. The third retreated, silently: too dark to see where it had gone to hide. No matter. 

The Gates of Angband were not made only of iron. They were made of some sorcerous substance, stronger than stone and tainted through and through with the poisonous essence of Morgoth. Fëanor found it hard to even look at them, but he lifted his spirit-blade, and attacked them anyway. 

The doors rang with the sound, echoing into the dark, but they did not give way. Not with the first blow, and not the tenth. If the sword had been made of any physical metal, it would have been notched, but Fëanor strengthened it with his own will, and it held. Still, no-one came to challenge him. 

A movement, some distance away. He swung around and lifted the sword,trying not to notice how tired he felt. 

It was a single figure, in the height and shape of an Elf. There was a darkness to it, with a strong hint of the taint of Melkor, but there was something else there too: a power that Fëanor did not recognise, like a light hidden behind a veil. 

“You seem to be very keen to enter,” it said. The voice was light and not unpleasant.

He lifted the sword.  _ Tell Morgoth that I am here, to take back my Silmarils. Let him come out and fight! _

“And why should he be interested? You don’t seem to be making much of an impact on the gates. You don’t even have a body. Most of His servants can’t even see you.” 

_ I will wait for him. He cannot hide forever. _

The figure laughed, a ripple of sound that echoed strangely in that dark, dreary place. “Oh, I think you underestimate the size of Angband. He could stay inside until the fires of Thangorodrim are burned down to cold ash and I seriously doubt that he would even be bored. My lord is good at keeping himself entertained. But you can’t stay here that long, of course.”

_ I will wait for him until the stars die in the black wind at the end of the world, if need be. And then I will be revenged.  _

“You really won’t. You’ll simply join our happy throng, here in Angband, as his servant. But Fëanor, enemy of Melkor, will not be eager to do that, I’m sure.” It laughed again, as if it had just realised something amusing. 

“Oh, but you don’t  _ know _ ! I suppose death is very new to ...you people. How charming.”

Fëanor slashed furiously at the figure with his sword, but it was further away than he had thought, or perhaps it moved at just the right moment, and it continued as if he had not moved. 

“The Lord Melkor’s will is stronger than yours,” it said conversationally, and the voice was easy to listen to, a golden voice, reasonable and persuasive. Fëanor leaped forward, the sword flaming in his hand, and this time it did at least visibly step aside. 

“The body is stronger than the spirit, you know. Bodies go on working when the spirit is... quite broken. Without the body, the spirit will not die. But it will not be protected... Look at yourself! ”

Without meaning to, Fëanor glanced down at his spirit-self. A darkness was half-hiding the flame, like a veil that crept, slowly, so slowly, around him. He looked back at the darkened figure. The veil of darkness across its light was the same. 

_ What is this?  _

“You know what it is. It will only spread, and spread, until you are trapped forever in the dark.” It moved backwards again, nimbly, avoiding his stroke. 

“The longer you stay here, close to Him, the faster it will come: the faster your light will fade. It will spread through you to the living, too, for it is alloyed with all the stuff of this Middle-earth. It will be in your voice, in your touch, and from bodiless spirit to other minds, it spreads swiftly. That is why the Valar have forbidden the living to speak with the dead. 

“It is the taint of Melkor... Oh, very well, of Morgoth, if you prefer! My lord has many names, I’m sure he’ll like this new one you have made for him, to add to all the gifts he’s already taken from you.”

Fëanor leapt at it, slashing wildly, and this time the blow connected. The figure parried hastily with a sword of darkness, and leaped backwards in his turn. They were well away from the gate, now, outside the entrance to the deep rock-walled chasm that led back to the plains. 

“Careful! Now you have torn my cloak. And all I wanted was to warn you. Leave here. For soon you will have no choice but to stay forever. Just one more damned spirit in the dark... That seems a waste of your talent, my lord Fëanor.”

_ Who are you? _

“One who has long been an admirer of your work. I have a special interest in the dead, so your current condition interests me. Truly, your strength is remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. You took the powers of your body with you, when you left it? That’ s not supposed to be possible.” 

Fëanor could feel the taint creeping upon him. Horrible, and familiar. And here there was no door to close to keep it out, nothing that you could pin down with a sword, even a spirit-sword made from the essence of the mightiest of the Noldor.

_ Why would you warn me, servant of darkness? Why would you care? _

“Oh well, I am an admirer of your work, as I said. And perhaps... I too have taken some steps in directions that I might not have chosen, if I had been warned. And so, here I am, warning you. But the choice is yours. Go — or stay, forever.”

Above them on the cliff, innumerable flames were crawling. Fëanor could hear the sound of many feet, hundreds, coming down through secret unseen doors into the valley floor. But worse than all of this was the creeping darkness upon his own spirit: biting, cold. He could feel now that it was coming directly from the mountain. His sword-tip dropped. There was nothing more to be done here, not yet. Not yet. 

In the dark near the Gates, Sauron stood watching him go. And he smiled. 

* * * * *

 

On the shore of Lake Mithrim, standing beneath a bare and leafless tree, Fëanor watched the stars in the still dark water, thinking what to do next.

His first thought had been to return to his sons, to plan the next assault, but the voice of the servant of Morgoth preyed upon his mind. 

“The Valar have forbidden the living to speak with the dead,” he had said, and that at least was true, no matter what other lies he had spoken. Who knew what the Valar might do if that ruling were broken? So far, they had not intervened to stop him by force, but unbodied, he was exposed. He had no desire to be carried off to the Halls of Mandos by force. 

Something silver leaped in the lake, shattering the star-reflections into concentric ripples. The trees might still sleep here, safe from the darkness, but there was still life awake in Middle-earth. 

It was not that Fëanor was inclined to pay much attention to the pronouncements of the Valar. But now he had seen the size and strength of the fortress of Morgoth, it was clear that there had been important factors left out of his plans, and he was not yet sure of their scope. He should not, then, speak with his sons unless he had good reason to do so. 

Movement to the North, around the camp caught his eye. A strong force was marching out. They were a good distance away, but Fëanor recognised Maedhros at their head, even in full armour, from his height and something about the way he held his shoulders. 

Maedhros or any of his other sons might recognise him, if they looked straight at their father, and certainly if he addressed them. But as long as Fëanor did not call on them mind to mind, it was unlikely that any of the Noldor would see a spirit that they were not expecting. He followed the marching Elves, swift as thought. 

They crossed the Ered Wethrin by the pass, and headed east across the shadowy plain that led towards Angband. Not far from the last foothills of the mountains, the party paused. More than half the force headed off, some going north and some south, walking softly and stealthily with their weapons ready in their hands. The remainder of the party set off east again, spread out a little, so as to appear more numerous. 

A small black-clad group came into view, ahead of them on the road from the Gates. Some were Orcs mounted on short-legged black wolves, the rest, taller, were on foot. One of them seemed to be carrying a bundle. Maedhros halted and swung up a hand. What was he doing? 

“I am here to accept your surrender as agreed,” he called to them. “Surrender the Silmaril to me. Then we will negotiate terms.” 

What happened next was almost too fast to make sense. 

A great rush of black bats swooped down on Maedhros and his troops, striking viciously at their faces. The elves struck at the confusing whirl of wings with their swords, distracted and confused. Then, unexpectedly out of the North-West, a great number of wolfriders crashed into the flank and rear of the distracted Elves. 

The Noldor hastily turned to face them, rallying. Fëanor could hear Maedhros calling to his rearguard for reinforcement. The whirling bats made it hard to see what was happening. 

He strode forward, striking out with his spirit-sword at the bats, which shrieked and circled away from him. 

Somewhere to the west he could hear shouts and screaming. He turned to look, and saw only a regiment of orcs in heavy armour, appearing through the darting cloud of bats. Their iron-shod feet drummed heavily on the hard ground, and they yelled as they came. There were Balrogs around somewhere too, he could feel the iron-heavy taint of them on the still air, but he could not see them yet. 

He charged the orc-troop from the side, cleaving right through their ranks, leaving confusion in his wake. The air was still filled with circling bats. He could hear fighting going on all around, but it was hard to see who was fighting who: he doubted any of the Elves would realise in the confusion that he was there at all. One thing was clear. Maedhros’s party had been attacked by a vastly more numerous force. 

Fëanor’s charge had taken him near to the remnant of the rearguard, who were standing firm but unable to break the weight of the oncoming orcs. Well, there he could help. 

Fëanor smashed into the rear of the force of orcs that were locked in combat with the rearguard. He could see orcs peering around over their shoulders, nervous, unable to see him, yet aware of him none the less as a terrible danger and he laughed as he slew them. 

The rearguard was encouraged by their enemies’ hesitation, and drove back at them with a shout. Across a sea of iron orc-helms, Fëanor saw Caranthir at the head of the new attack and stepped back a little. He was not ready to meet his sons again, not yet. 

The bats had vanished. Looking around Fëanor saw orcs retreating, running for the safety of Angband as fast as they could go. He could see a few of Maedhros’s guard fallen in the distance — but there was no sign of Maedhros himself at all. 

 

* * * * *

 

Again and again, Fëanor made up his mind to speak, mind to mind, with his remaining sons. Again and again he decided that it was not yet the time to take the risk. The frustration of being unable to command events burned in his heart. 

Maglor, as Fëanor’s eldest remaining son and so, by default, now his heir, received the messenger of Morgoth when he came, in the makeshift camp lit with lamps, beside the dark and mournful lake. 

The Enemy’s messenger was a tall slender person, who wore a badge showing black clouds crossed with lightning. Perhaps long ago, he had been a Dark Elf, but there was a red fire in his eyes now, and his face was marked with lines of cruelty and weariness. He walked into the camp with apparent confidence, surrounded by watchful guards. Maglor and his brothers met him in the gloom by the eastern gate. 

The message he brought was a harsh one. 

“The lord Melkor has your king.” The messenger threw the crown that Maedhros had been wearing when he vanished contemptuously at Maglor’s feet. “He is our hostage. You must obey. My lord requires you to leave this land, and go back where you came from, or South into the far lands. My lord cares not which. Only if you do this will the Lord of All the World return your brother.”

Maglor looked at the messenger calmly, although his brother’s faces around him were dark with anger. “Morgoth will not return him, whatever we do. We know him. We know he lies. We are sworn to overthrow your lord and take back what he stole. You will not stop us.”

“Your brother will suffer for it,” the messenger said sullenly.

Maglor met his eyes silently for a moment. Seeing the light of the Trees of Valinor in his face, the messenger stepped back in alarm. 

“That is all the message we have for you. Go! Take it to your master!” Maglor’s voice was clear and full of power, and there was not one note of hesitation in it. He might have been acting in a play, portraying the role of fearless prince, with nothing real at stake at all. 

It was only afterwards, when he looked after the messenger heading East to Angband, that you could see the tension in his face. Even then, it was only for a moment. 

 

* * * * *

 

Fëanor was looking out towards Angband from the pass of Eithel Sirion, when he felt, distant yet clear, the presence of his enemy far off and high above. It was too far, too high up for even elf-eyes to see clearly, but somewhere, high up towards the mountain peak, above defended walls, cliffs, scree-slopes, and precipices, Fëanor knew, Morgoth stood and looked out on Middle-earth. Fëanor looked at the veil of darkness that lay still upon his spirit-hands, and knew that he dare not approach too close. He cursed, silently and bitterly. 

The great volcano rumbled, long and low, and the plain shook beneath the feet of the Elves. Fire belched into the sky. Fëanor looked up and saw, far above and utterly out of reach, his eldest son suspended by one arm, hung alive upon the precipice by his enemy. If he had still had tears, he would have wept. But he could not, and so, instead, he raged, silent, unseen and bitter. 

 

* * * * *

 

Once Fëanor’s sons had taken stock of their position, their father watching every moment, silent and unseen, it was clear that they did not have the numbers to mount a serious challenge to Angband. They could not hope to assault the fortified slopes of Thangorodrim, let alone breach the Iron Gates. 

All they could do was make safe their own position and try to build up their strength. Set up mines and forges. Breed the few, precious horses carried by ship from the West to Losgar, in the hope of being able to field mounted troops one day. Build a new life in this new place, when they knew that their Enemy was growing stronger beyond the mountain-wall, and their rightful lord was kept as a prisoner in torment. 

Celegorm wore himself thin arranging hunting parties for the strange beasts that wandered the star-lit forests, while Caranthir organised the building of fishing boats to catch the silver fish of Lake Mithrim, and Amrod and Amras set up groups of foragers. These needed great caution and armed protection, for orcs and beasts of Morgoth could often be encountered in the wild woodlands far from Angband. Maglor was standing up well to the challenge of leading their people; he and Caranthir together made a formidable partnership, even in the absence of Maedhros, who had always been their leader. 

Curufin had other concerns. 

“To build armies, we must have supplies. We must be able to feed our people well, to thatch their roofs and provide food and bedding for the horses. We must have farms, ” he told Maglor flatly. 

Maglor frowned at him. “That would be welcome, if we could have it only by wishing for it. But the Sleep of Yavanna lies on these lands. I can hardly command our people to build farms to grow crops by starlight.”

“Not by the light of these distant stars, no,” Curufin said doggedly, refusing to be daunted. “But how if the light were collected, intensified? Focussed where we need it most? Then, perhaps we could begin to awaken this land.” 

“You think that can be done?”

“I think it can. Let me take a little time to work on it. I can trap star-light in a lantern easily enough: to scale it up to light an acre, two acres, and more... it should be possible.”

Maglor considered. “It would make the land safer, if we could light it. The beasts of the woods have no love for light, and we will need every sword-hand. Very well; go ahead.”

Fëanor could not have been more proud of Curufin. It was the kind of thing he would have planned himself. It would not be an easy thing to achieve, but if it worked! Ah, then the Enemy would have something to fear and marvel at. 

The days ran past, measured only by the turning of the stars, and stretched out into years, while Maedhros hung in torment on the mountain, and far away, his brothers and their people worked with furious speed, building, mining, forging, and tried not to think of him. 


	2. The Rising of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Long Peace.

Against all likelihood and expectation, light came to Middle-earth.  

A silver light, vast, magnificent, outshining all stars with a brilliance that recalled lost Telperion.  

With it, unlooked-for, came Fingolfin.

Fëanor, unseen, had been watching Curufin at work when the news came in to the camp at Hithlum. Curufin’s face was tense as he made small, fine adjustments to the equipment that they had brought from Valinor. Fëanor could not resist giving his mind a small push in the right direction, just the smallest of pushes, barely a connection at all. Curufin had always been his favorite, and he was so infuriatingly close to solving the problem. 

Then there was running and shouting in the camp outside; “They are here! Our kin have come out of the West!” 

And everywhere, a great silver light casting long moon-shadows, where there had been only shadow and starlight. 

At first Fëanor did not believe that his brother could possibly be there. It must be some mistake.  Fingolfin had never really wanted to follow his older brother. 

What Fingolfin really wanted was the kingship of the Noldor in Valinor: all he had said and done for many years had made that quite clear. 

Fëanor _knew_ that Fingolfin had only refused to turn back when their youngest brother had done so because that might have made Fingolfin look weak to his people. That was why he had made a show of defying the Valar. 

Fingolfin thought about that sort of thing. He knew how to make himself popular.

And yet, mysteriously, it was true. Here he was.  Had the Valar sent him?  Not after Alqualondë, surely. Not after the Doom of Mandos.  The Valar would not send any aid. 

Why would Fingolfin come to Middle-earth? Fëanor’s first thought was that he had come for revenge, angry at being left behind. Yet, surely a fitter revenge would have been to return to Tirion, make whatever apology the Valar demanded, and take Fëanor’s place as king in Tirion? It was not as though Fingolfin had ever wanted to follow Fëanor’s lead.

Fingolfin could have turned back. Fingolfin  _ should _ have turned back. It made no sense. 

When the Sun rose for the first time in all her golden splendour, and the thin, haggard people of the House of Fingolfin, marked with frost and long suffering, came marching, implacable in the sunlight, along the bank of Lake Mithrim and across the mountains to beat on the very gates of Angband, when they returned across the new green grass of Ard-galen, and began settling on the lakeshore opposite the camp of the people of Fëanor, as if this had been part of the plan all along, Fëanor began to wonder if he had ever understood Fingolfin at all. 

At least Morgoth had not come out from his hiding place for Fingolfin, either. 

 

* * * * *

  
Maglor had made the decision that the people of Fëanor must leave their camp on the North side of the lake, and move South of the lake, leaving the camp that they had built empty.  There was some grumbling at the order to leave the camp that had been home since they had come to this land, but no serious arguing.  When Fingolfin led his people back from the gates of Angband, the camp was empty and waiting for them. 

There were perhaps not quite as many of them as there had been, when Fëanor had last seen them left behind on the cold shore, but they were still a mighty host, far more numerous than his own. They had to crowd in, twelve or more to each house, which had been designed as comfortable and pleasant temporary housing for no more than six. On the outskirts of the camp, Elves were already sawing wood and putting up new buildings. 

It was only the people of Fingolfin who were working there. Fëanor’s people had left supplies for the House of Fingolfin, but to come with axes and saws to assist the people who had walked across the Ice after they had been left behind as unwanted —  that was too uncomfortable to contemplate. 

If the House of Fingolfin would stand together with the House of Fëanor, Fëanor thought, then perhaps such numbers might stand a chance even against the might of Angband. But that would depend on Fingolfin himself. 

He had taken the house that had been built for Maglor as regent of the King. It was strange to see him standing there between rough-cut timber beams, in ugly uncured sealskin boots, wearing a cloak with a mended rip in it. Fëanor always thought of Fingolfin dressed for festival, in silks and jewels before the throne of Manwë. His eldest son Fingon was with him. Fingon had one arm in a sling, and was clearly wearing someone else’s jacket, from the fit of it. 

“Dead?” Fingolfin said slowly, to Amras, who had come as messenger to his uncle: a tense mission. Many faces turned to follow Amras as he walked alone through the camp to the house that Fingolfin had taken to sleep in, and voices muttered of treachery. “My brother Fëanor is  _ dead _ ?”

“He was slain by Balrogs in the first battle,” Amras said, sounding almost apologetic and far too humble, in Fëanor’s opinion. “He pressed on too swiftly in the heat of his fury, and by the time we had caught up with him, he was terribly injured. He died soon after.”

“He would,” Fingolfin said, and his hands were clenched tight, yet there was no sign of emotion on his face at all. “And now we must pursue his revenge for him, since he is no longer here to take it himself. Well, I thank you for the news, nephew, and for the accommodation. My people are not so well provisioned as they were, and they have lost much. You should know that Turgon’s wife was one of those who died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Amras said. There was a long pause. Amras looked more and more uncomfortable.

Fingolfin broke the waiting silence. “Go now, and swiftly. My people have not forgiven their suffering in the Ice. Their losses are sharp. Give them a little time to heal, before you come here again... particularly if you come after dark, and unannounced. You may take my greetings to your brother, Maedhros. ” He turned away, dismissing Amras with an offhand gesture. 

Fëanor could felt his spirit blazing red with fury and had to concentrate hard to keep it from flaring up in a way that would be noticed. Why did he have to be so... so Fingolfin-ish? 

“Maedhros... Maedhros was captured by the enemy,” Amras said, taking a step backwards, but not leaving yet. Fëanor could not help noticing that he sounded very young. “They hold him captive in... in torment, on the mountain. Maglor rules in his absence.” Fingon, who had said nothing until then, made an abrupt intake of breath. 

“What! How can this be?” Fingolfin’s voice was sharp with surprise. 

“Morgoth feigned a false surrender. He offered a Silmaril, and said he wished for peace... We did not trust him, and planned an ambush, but they were very many. They sent Balrogs against us.”

“And you were too few,” Fingon said, angrily. “What a surprise!”

Fingolfin held up his hand to silence his son. “Your news is all of woe,” he said to Amras, sternly. “Take my greetings to your brother, Maglor. ”

Amras bowed low to his uncle, and swiftly turned and left. Fëanor went with him. He had had as much of Fingolfin as he was prepared to put up with.

 

* * * * * 

 

The urgency of Curufin’s work with light sources had been lessened by the rising of the Sun. But an attack on Angband seemed impossible yet. To sustain a siege for long, they would need better armour, weapons, and any other advantage that they could think of.

“It just looks like a sword to me,” Celegorm said, picking it up from Curufin’s workbench. He had been lounging around the workshop most of the day, since the weather outside was damp and foggy. “Nice balance, though...” He waved it experimentally, and then tested the edge on the fine hairs of his wrist. “Sharp!”

“It doesn’t look anything special in daylight” Curufin told him. “Careful with that. It’s the only one that’s come through the process without shattering yet. I want to try it out.”

“Try it out?” Celegorm looked quizzically at his brother. 

“On some orcs,” Curufin explained. “I thought we might do a little night-hunting.”

  
* * * * *

They rode down the path from Eithel Sirion, two faint dark figures on swift horses, with the great shaggy form of Celegorm’s hound running behind. Past the spot where Fëanor had died and down into the wide plains of Ard-Galen where the grass now grew long and green in the sunlight. There had been a time when it would not have been safe for only two to venture beyond the springs of Sirion, but in the years since the rising of the Sun, things had changed. Morgoth’s creatures were rarely seen now, and those few were wary and appeared only when neither Sun nor Moon were in the sky. 

Fëanor needed no horse to follow them. He was almost as eager as Curufin to see the results of their work. Most of it had been Curufin’s, of course, but he had not been able to resist giving his son a little help here and there. He was fairly sure that Curufin had not noticed. 

They hunted along the bottom of the slopes of the Dor Daedeloth, where the grass had crept almost to the margins of the old black lava flows. It was quiet, wet, and you could not see very far ahead because of the fog, which dampened sound and hid the stars. 

High up on the mountain, red flames could just be seen on the nearest of the defences. To Fëanor’s senses, a black web of knotted power reached down the mountain and spread across the soil, swirling, disorienting. And yet, the dark lines that wove across the plains were not so clear and sharp as they had been before the Sun had risen. Morgoth’s power in this land had been weakened.

Curufin reined his horse in, and half-drew the sword. It’s edges flickered faintly, a pale, clear blue. Fëanor laughed with delight, unheard by his sons, and Curufin laughed too, half a heartbeat later. 

“It works! It sees orcs up on the mountain, and lights to tell us!”

“Very pretty,” Celegorm said with a smile. “Can it tell us where they are?”

“Not yet. I’m working on that. But it should be able to give us an idea of numbers: the more of them there are, and the closer they are, the brighter the light. If Maedhros had had this, then he might have had time to get away.” The smile left his face. Celegorm looked up at the mountain, and his face was grim. You could not see the tiny figure that was Maedhros, hanging on the cliff, from this angle, but there was no forgetting that he was there. 

“One day,” he said. “As soon as we are ready... Shall we go back?” 

Fëanor reached out hastily to Celegorm and left a suggestion near the surface of his mind. It was probably not too risky to do that, as long as he did not do it too often, though of course being so close to Angband did make the open mind a little more vulnerable. 

“...Or shall we see if we can catch a goblin for you to take home, so that you can test your blades more conveniently?”

“That would be useful...” Curufin began.

The mountain rumbled, and his horse danced nervously. A sulphurous smell filled the air. Thangorodrim was not sleeping deeply. 

“Come on then!” Celegorm whistled to his hound and urged his horse onward. 

  
  


* * * * *

 

The dark vapours that Morgoth had poured out from Thangorodrim hung black in the sky to the North and East, but the Sun, low in the west, shone through a ragged gap in the dark fumes. High above the Fëanorian camp, a great eagle turned on the updraft, the long wing feathers catching the golden light out of the west. Fëanor looked up at it with concern, wondering what new news or proclamation it would bring. 

It was carrying something in its great talons, he could see. It circled lower, and now people in the camp had spotted it and were calling out “Eagle of Manwë!” 

It took another long, leisurely turn and Fëanor saw that it was even larger than he had thought at first : what it was carrying was people.

It did not land, but swooped low over the meadows where Celegorm had been experimenting with domesticating the small grey goats of Hithlum, and out across the lake, heading north to the old camp now occupied by Fingolfin and his people. 

Fëanor moved with it across the surface of the water. It was no obstacle to him, weightless as he was.  

The Eagle passed the lake swiftly, dipped almost to the ground as it reached the shore, and dropped what it was carrying onto the short springy grass. The huge wings beat once, and it banked up over the lake with a plaintive scream, and then winged away over the water into the west. 

One of the people landed on his feet, agile, and went at once to the side of the other, who had hit the grass like a dead weight, and now lay very still, wrapped in a long grey cloak. On the fastening of the cloak, the winged sun of the house of Fingolfin could be seen through the bloodstains that trailed in a dark pattern across the fabric. 

Fingon, son of Fingolfin, had climbed the heights of Thangorodrim. All alone, he had passed the walls, the cliffs and gates, the sleepless patrols with many eyes. And with the aid of Thorondor, Lord of Eagles, he had stolen his cousin Maedhros from Morgoth himself, and had brought him back to safety after years of torment. 

 

* * * * * * 

Maedhros, still looking thin and worn, with his handless right arm bound up, walked into Fingolfin’s camp at midmorning. It was raining, a soft thin rain out of pale grey skies. All six of his brothers walked behind him, and their most prominent supporters behind them. 

They came as penitents, wearing no jewels or armour, and they carried no weapons or shields. Some of them were clearly very uncomfortable about that. They had brought fifty tall horses as gifts: a very fine grey stallion which had been Maglor’s own, and the rest mares, bays and chestnuts, and some with lively young foals running at heel. 

The camp of Fingolfin was strangely silent, despite the numbers of people who had come out to watch. There was no murmuring as Fëanor’s sons approached over the muddy grass, but the watching eyes were hard and accusing. 

Fingon walked beside Maedhros, and as he walked he met the eyes of many of the onlookers. There were few who could hold his gaze for long. Maedhros looked only ahead.

Fingolfin came out to greet them. He had a new cloak from somewhere: it looked Sindarin in style. No doubt the House of Fingolfin had received gifts from the Grey Elves who lived in Hithlum, even if they had not yet had time to send envoys to Doriath. Finrod and Galadriel were with their uncle, and both were armed. 

Maedhros went awkwardly to one knee. You could see he was still weak, and for that alone, Fëanor could not be too angry with him.  He would keep that for Fingolfin, who stood there and let his nephew kneel, who should have been his king. 

“I ask your forgiveness for abandoning you and your people in Araman, my lord. We should never have done it. I am sorry. ” 

Fëanor would have liked to object. But now he realised the true situation in Middle-earth, he was forced to agree there was some little truth to it. Abandoning more than half their strength in Araman had been a mistake. 

Did Maedhros have to be quite so humble about it though? And Maedhros spoke the words with the new ‘sá-sí’, in the manner of the followers of Fingolfin too, and that was bitter to hear. 

“I waive my claim to the kingship of the Noldor,” Maedhros went on. A murmur ran around the camp at that. Fëanor had been expecting it, after the furious discussions in the southern camp, which had ended abruptly when Maedhros, exhausted, had said simply; “Enough!” and Maglor had backed him.   But still, it was bitter to hear it done. The elder branch of his family dispossessed in favour of Fingolfin and his family. Fëanor was watching Curufin’s face, and could see he was bitterly unhappy. Good boy. 

Fingolfin stood expressionless before Maedhros, and said nothing.  It was raining.  Maedhros was far too thin to be kneeling in the rain like that.  Fëanor wanted to hurry him indoors. 

Maedhros went on steadily, with the rain running down his face, “We have brought these horses as gifts, as some small recompense for your great losses. I am here thanks only to your son Fingon, bravest and best, who came alone to rescue me from Morgoth. It was a great and generous act. I owe the House of Fingolfin more than I have words to say. But even if he had not, and even if there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwe and not the least wise.”

“I forgive you with a whole heart.” Fingolfin said, in a clear voice that could be heard by all, and he took his eldest nephew’s hand and helped him back to his feet. “Hear, all ye people! The Noldor are reconciled, and we are one people again. Let there be no more talk of old quarrels. And let all praise Fingon, who has struck a great blow against the Enemy with this rescue!“

There was some cheering at that. Fingon bowed, looking serious.

“Come in out of the rain, before you fall over in the mud.” Fingolfin said, in a quieter voice — at last!  He had taken his time about it!  — and they went inside.

 

* * * * * *

 

Much was achieved in the years after that— from a certain viewpoint, at least. Fortifications and farms, mines, castles and towns were built. New weapons were forged and alliances made. New strong kingdoms established where only a few wandering Grey Elves had lived. The grass grew long around the walls of Thangorodrim, and the Noldor pastured their growing horse-herds before the doors of Morgoth. 

Fëanor had tried, in the early days, taking the route that Fingon had found up onto Thangorodrim, but it was no longer unwatched. Balrogs sensed him, and drove him back before he came far up the mountainside. Morgoth’s legions might not venture out of Angband, but they did not sleep. 

When Maedhros decided that the land south-east of Ard-galen required a permanent garrison, and that providing it personally would prevent his brothers from creating quarrels in Hithlum, Fëanor followed his sons East. He sympathised with his younger sons, but it was good that Maedhros was providing strong leadership for his people. 

He travelled with Caranthir though the forests of Thargelion and up into the broad tawny foothills of the Blue Mountains, past the cold green waters of Lake Helevorn, to the new bronze-bound doors that marked the Western border of the dwarf-kingdom of Nogrod. He was fascinated to observe the mining and metalworking techniques of the dwarves. They were crude and dangerous, and yet he thought they showed great potential. After that, he went for a while to Curufin and Celegorm in Himlad. Young Celebrimbor was beginning to be a promising craftsman. 

Fëanor travelled back to Himring, where Maedhros was doing a good, workmanlike job of building a fortress. It was less inspired in design than Curufin’s home, of course — he had let a few suggestions drift through to Curufin — but none the less, it was a fortress that would not be easy for Morgoth to attack, and the hidden ways beneath it through the rock for access to water and tunnels to the south were, he had to admit, quite clever . 

He was inspecting the armouries when the trumpets rang out in warning. Soldiers leaped into practiced action, and he went with them, out across the plains to the great army that was assaulting the passes of Dorthonion. 

The spirit-sword was not so effective against Orcs — or perhaps it had lost some of its edge. He must see if it could be reinforced. But the Orcs seemed to be able to tell that he was there, none the less. He could at least drive them shrieking onto other’s swords, and he did so with enthusiasm.

 

* * * * * 

They called it the Dagor Aglareb, and it was indeed glorious.  Fëanor began to hope again that with sufficient preparation and planning, a victory against the Enemy might still be achieved. 

For a while after the victory of the Dagor Aglareb, he travelled in the lands south of Doriath, making a study of the varied dialects of Sindarin, storing the details in his capacious memory. He tried entering Doriath, just to see what would happen, but was unable to pass the border. It was interesting to see how the Girdle of Melian worked, even if it was a little painful to test it personally. 

He worked on the spirit-sword in Curufin’s workshops, which were extensive enough by then that it was easy enough to find a quiet place to work without being detected. Curufin, with the aid of his son and many willing helpers, was working on many projects, from developing the idea of the seeing stones that Fëanor had first created in Valinor into a tool that could be used in war, to improvements in weapons, in armour, in defence.  Curufin hurried from one to the next as inspiration came to him. He needed a good deal of space to work on them all. 

Holding a pen without fingers felt odd and was not easy, but to give up such an essential art could not be considered. With practice it became simple. Fëanor developed a new style of handwriting, so that if any of his notes should be discovered, they would not cause alarm through familiarity. 

A hundred years or more later, he developed his grand philological theory further, by including a survey of the dialects of the languages of the Men who had come into Beleriand. He found their short lives and swift deaths fascinating, particularly by comparison with his own condition. He made a great number of notes, then went back to Himlad, to the stronghold that Curufin and Celegorm had built upon the slopes of a hill near the Pass of Aglon, and there he wrote a treatise about Men and mortality. 

He had both works published under a pseudonym, by slipping them into a packet of letters being sent to Finrod in Nargothrond.  In the hidden city far from Angband, many books were being written and sent out across Beleriand. 

Finrod’s father Finarfin had proved to be of little interest, Fëanor thought, but Finrod himself seemed to have a lively curiosity and a dedication to knowledge that Fëanor found pleasing. He had wondered what Finrod would do with his work, and was somewhat pleased, if a little alarmed, when the pseudonym received a long enthusiastic letter from Finrod in return, full of questions and metaphysical discussion. 

He could not resist sending a letter back, but added a message that he was just setting out on a long journey far to the East of the Ered Luin, just in case Finrod decided that he wanted to come and discuss metaphysics with the pseudonym in person. It was a journey he had thought of making, would, perhaps have made, if it had not been for the Oath that held him and his sons close to Angband. 

The Oath chafed at him, demanding action. But there was no getting his Silmarils back, and no word came out of Angband of anything that might be happening behind those iron gates. 

 

* * * * * 

To his surprise, Fëanor found that Fingolfin was the only person who seemed to appreciate that things could not go on like this forever. 

He had thought his sons would be eager to fulfil their oath and strike against the Enemy. And yet, it seemed,  they were in no hurry to do more than defend. 

He went so far as to visit Curufin in a dream, and speak to him there. The dead often appeared unbidden in dreams. There could surely be no harm in that. 

“Why do you not attack Angband?” He stood in Curufin’s dream on a broad green hillside under a flowering apple-tree. A little way below the tree, wandering beside a stream, Curufin’s wife was picking primroses. “You are great lords now, with many Elves and these new Men at your command. You have had more than long enough to prepare. Why do you wait?”

Curufin, who was sitting in the grass, leaning against the trunk of the tree, buried his head in his hands and did not answer. His long dark hair fell across his face. Fëanor stood before him, fixed him with his eyes, and waited. 

“You don’t know what Morgoth did to Maedhros,” he said at last, not looking at his father. “None of us want to be suspended from Thangorodrim.”

“Your oath calls you to strike. ‘Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him’. You all swore it.” 

“We swore. I know it too well. I feel it move sometimes, in the depths of my mind, you know that? My sworn word, a snake in the dark, watching me..”

“Do you regret it?" Fëanor asked him bluntly. 

Curufin did not answer directly. “But you  _ died _ . You escaped and left us behind. Now you sleep in Mandos’s halls. Why should we rush so eagerly into Morgoth’s arms?”

Fëanor ignored the assumption. “Because it’s your duty. Are you a coward?” He said it to put some mettle into his son, expecting anger in response. But Curufin just looked down, crouching forward, avoiding his eyes. What was wrong with him? 

“If we fail, the everlasting darkness dooms us all. You gave your word.”

“I know,” Curufin said wretchedly. “I know! But if you only knew... The rumours coming out of Angband. Maedhros thinks he was lucky. Can you imagine that? Morgoth wanted him on display. So he was outside, in the wind and the light and rain. If we fail, if we fall, then we’ll be under the mountain. Alone in torment in the eternal dark. Forever. Is it so terrible to wait a few more years? We’ll be the stronger for it.” 

“Don’t wait too long,” Fëanor warned him, and walked out of the dream, frustrated and troubled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I am not posting too fast. I worked out that posting once a week, I would still be posting in May 2018, and would have some of the most gloomy chapters at the end of December : posting a few extra chapters at this stage gets us to a slightly less dark chapter over the festive season!


	3. The Flames of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost Fëanor and the Dagor Bragollach.

It was partly Fingolfin’s fault, Fëanor thought. Fingolfin had never been a particularly persuasive leader. Fingolfin could not win over his people to follow him into an attack by the power of his own passion, in the way that Fëanor had done. But he had to admit that at least Fingolfin was  _ trying _ to encourage his reluctant people to take the fight to the Enemy. 

It was Fingolfin who sent messages urging Fëanor’s sons to explore the eastern end of the Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains that stood tall and dark around the border of Angband. 

And it was Fingolfin who came in person to visit the defenses, talking of assaulting the Iron Gates. He was only reluctantly dissuaded by Maedhros that there was no route that an army could take into Angband from the East. 

It was Fingolfin too, who insisted on setting up camps on the plains before the gates, lest some small movement by the Enemy should otherwise be missed. 

Fëanor began to wonder if he should break his resolution and speak directly to his half-brother. Perhaps together they could find some strategy that would bring together all the foes of the Black Enemy of All the World, to break Morgoth’s power before he had a chance to strike. 

So it was that when at last Morgoth broke the Siege of Angband, Fëanor was not with his sons in the East, but in Hithlum, in the white town by the lake of Mithrim that Fingolfin had built as his capital for the long peace.  He was watching Fingolfin, wondering whether to reveal himself. 

The fluted stone towers and smooth slate roofs of Noldorin houses reflected in the still waters of the lake. Higher up on the hills around the lake-shore, the finely-carved wooden homes of the grey-elves were set among avenues of birch and rowan trees, pale and bare now that winter lay upon the land. 

The dark lake reflected at first only stars, but as the night drew on, there came a red light in the eastern sky. Bells began ringing in alarm: there was a smell of smoke on the air. 

Fingolfin, awoken, watched in horror as the seeing-stones showed the rivers of fire running over Ard-Galen, covering the plain faster than a horse could gallop. The far-listeners carried the sound of screaming, until one by one, the seeing stones went black, and the listeners were silent. 

By the time Fingolfin, and Fëanor silently with him, had reached Barad Eithel, the fortress on the pass to the mountain-walls of Hithlum, the plain was a fearful sight : a sullen red where the rivers of fire still smouldered, black and scorched where the long grass had burned, and across the blackness crawled countless armies of orcs, armed and armoured in iron. 

The cunning map that Curufin had invented, which so elegantly traced each enemy unit on the plain in blue light, was nothing but a wash of swirling blue. Here and there, runes still readable marked out notable parts of the enemy forces: Balrog, they said. Balrog. Balrog. Dragon. 

The seeing-stones of Ard-Galen had gone out, but those set high in the passes of Dorthonion, upon the walls of the Pass of Aglon, looking West from Mount Rerir over Maglor’s Gap, and set on the towers of Himring itself still showed the terrible tale unfolding. 

Maglor’s horsemen, what was left of them, fleeing rivers of fire, desperately trying to reach the stronghold of Himring. Orcs swarming into the hills of Dorthonion in great numbers: Aegnor’s desperate, hard-fought retreat, valley by valley, hill by hill, every foot of land contested as he fell back towards the Pass of Anach. Angrod’s stronghold on the borders of Ladros falling before the whips of the Balrogs. 

Fëanor’s sons swept away from the Pass of Aglon by sheer, impossible numbers. The orc-army swarming up Mount Rerir to Caranthir’s stronghold, in numbers so great that the whole mountainside was black with them. 

Fëanor went with Fingolfin in the counter-attack from the Ered Wethrin, but they did not get far. The smoke and burning ground set fear in even the horses descended out of Valinor. The sheer numbers of the orcs made it impossible to advance on foot where the ground was passable, and behind them were the red whips of the Balrogs, driving on the orcs and directing the rivers of fire to where they would do most harm. 

Fëanor was in no danger from the orcs, but he could neither slay nor set fear in such serried ranks of them, filled with such a deadly hate. The very ground was woven with the thoughts of Morgoth, cutting into his spirit, clouding its light. He had no choice but to retreat with Fingolfin’s people. 

 

* * * *

 

There was no dawn that day, or the next. There was only a faint grey light that filtered through the fumes still belching from Thangorodrim’s craters. Ash fell like burning snow. The air smelled of hot metal and sulphur. 

Legions of orcs threw themselves at the mountains, seeking any gap in the cliffs that might offer a possible way into Hithlum. Every gap and slope that was not a sheer cliff must be defended, and the pass of Eithel Sirion most of all. 

Fingon, in armour, with his knights about him, moved tirelessly along the cliffs, encouraging the defenders, identifying weak spots, moving troops to defend each move by the enemy. 

Fëanor watched silently at the gates of Barad Eithel, which stood now not far from the place where he had met his death. Here, on the mountainside where he had died, the spirit-sword was strongest, and many orcs felt it before they came near to the tall gate in the wall of the fortress of Fingolfin. 

Fingolfin tried more sorties onto the plains, and each time he was flung back. From Fingolfin’s tower on the heights of Barad Eithel, you could see far across the burned and blackened plains that had been Ard-Galen, that now people were beginning to call Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. In the seeing stones of the tower, Fingolfin watched the bitter defeat unfold. 

Fingon came to the tower one night, tired and bloody from the battle on the walls, bringing reports and seeking counsel, and found his father alone. 

“The line is still holding,” Fingon reported, though Fingolfin could see that for himself. “But we still can find no way to get a force large enough to hold its own out through the gates in battle order...” He paused and looked curiously at his father. “What’s the matter?” 

“Hador died today, “ Fingolfin told him. 

Fingon’s grey eyes widened in shock “Oh no.”

“They tried to take the Westgate this morning, while you were up at Barad Niniach.”  Fingolfin’s voice was harsh and cracked.  “He was in the sortie with me.  My rear-guard.  He drove them back. He bought us long enough that we could bring down the cliff to block the way. Sixty-five years. That was all the life he had. Sixty-five! If he had been my son, I would have thought him still too young to fight. Yet he died defending my walls, and he bought me my life.”

“He would not have wanted anything else,” Fingon said.

“No. He would not. And Men are not children. But now he’s gone. No return to life, for Hador. No waiting in the halls of Mandos, no meeting again in Valinor, no matter how distant. He’s gone beyond the world.”

“He’d say, have a drink and don’t be so serious,” Fingon pointed out. 

Fingolfin laughed, a short choking laugh. “He would. You’re right, he would. Remember how he used to say; ‘life is short, so enjoy it’? I don’t know how he did that. They are strange people, Men.”

“We owe him and his people a great debt.” 

“We do. And I have no hope of paying it now. I would be happy to have no more obligations I cannot meet, and debts I cannot pay. Enemies I cannot defeat.”

Fingon poured him a cup of thin, sweet apple wine. “It’s a sore point. Have a drink for Hador while you think how you will get us out of it.” 

Fëanor, who had been quietly watching the battle raging around Himring in one of Fingolfin’s seeing stones, thought that he had never expected to feel sorry for Fingolfin until that moment. 

* * * * * 

 

The army of Nargothrond marched behind their lord, Finrod son of Finarfin, through nightfall and dark, ash shaded days, along the road past Tol Sirion, heading north as swiftly as they could, into battle. The watery pools and tall rushes of the Fen of Serech lay across the swiftest route into Dorthonion. There was no road across the fens wide enough for the heavily-armoured regiments of Nargothrond to advance along in order. 

In the Fens, Finrod’s army, strung out along winding paths and causeways, no more than four abreast, were attacked by clouds of shrieking bats. They drove between the companies, sending them reeling back in confusion. Small swift groups of wolf-riders struck out of the reeds and vanished into the murk. 

The Eldar are surefooted, but in this land of shifting mud and water, in semi-darkness, the goblins on their small, four-footed sharp-toothed steeds had the advantage. To the people of Fingolfin, looking down from the beleaguered forts in the mountains of the Ered Wethrin into the valley far below, it was all too clear what was happening, but they could do nothing to prevent it: even bows could not reach far enough, and there was no way down. 

Finrod’s army was being carved into pieces. 

Fëanor had come up to the clifftop when the word had gone out in Barad Eithel that Finrod’s army was in sight. Hundreds of feet below him in the wide valley, the dark fens spread out along the faint river-glimmer, reflecting what little light was in the sky. The blue flickering of the swords of Finrod’s soldiers shone in the pools. They were fighting like heroes, but it was clear that retreat was their only chance: they would never be able to pass the Fens and re-form into a fighting force, let alone bring aid to Finrod’s brothers in Dorthonion.  Small groups of them upon the flanks were being pulled down, some killed, some taken into darkness by many reaching hands. 

In the perception of Fëanor’s spirit, the coiling black of Morgoth’s thought, darker than the darkness, still stopped short of the banks of the young river Sirion and the edges of the marshland, although there were orcs moving in the gloom along the riverbank. It was a sheer drop, several hundred feet down the grey cliff-face and then the steep slope of the hillside dropping down to the water. No living creature without wings could have made the leap. 

Fëanor looked down, and thought that, after all, Finrod was a nephew, more or less.  He had not only followed Fingolfin across the ice to avenge his grandfather and strike a blow against the Enemy. He had published Fëanor’s survey of the dialects of the languages of Men, too, and that without knowing the author’s real name or lineage. 

Fëanor leapt. 

Finrod was in the first company, furthest into the fens. There were not many of them left when Fëanor reached them: perhaps thirty still on their feet, grimed with mud and slime where they had been forced from the solid ground, around Finrod, their king. All around them, wolves were snarling and corpses sank in the mud. 

On the path ahead, a strong force of armoured orcs stood, readying a charge. In the distance, sounds of battle could be heard, but the rest of the army of Nargothrond was out of sight behind enclosing walls of reeds. Finrod shouted words of power, his voice sounding harsh and strained, looking over his shoulder, south. The shield-wall locked into place and the orcs swayed backwards as Finrod’s fierce will sent waves of power against their minds: images of trees of gold, bright stars above. Some of the orcs quailed and ran. But not enough of them. 

Fëanor crashed joyfully into the flank of the orcs before they could move, knocking many of them into the water. He could feel strength flowing into him from Sirion, and had time to wonder, between furious, skillful satisfying blows, if that was because the stream ran down from his death-place, or if the river itself carried some protective power against the Enemy. 

The orcs before him were wavering, but another force of warg-riders had come out of the rushes to engage the already hard-pressed Elves on the other side, the shallow water splashing as they crashed into the long shields. Was there no end to them? One of Finrod’s people went down into the slime, and then another.   Finrod himself stepped into the line to face his foes.  He could not last long like that : no-one could fight with sword and word at the same time. 

And then, suddenly out of the East, a volley of arrows, right into the orcish ranks. There was shouting close at hand, a war-cry “Dorthonion! Dorthonion!” and again the arrows came. The orcs shrieked, died, and ran, north along the raised pathway and away out of sight. 

The new force was made up of Men out of Dorthonion; Aegnor’s people from the hills just East of the fens. They were well used to this country, where they had often come to hunt and fish in time of peace. Finrod and his valiant few talked with them for some little while, and Finrod handed over some token to their leader. Then he turned and headed South. The Men vanished, back into the reeds, to cover their retreat from the small, flat-bottomed boats where they had hidden. 

Fëanor took up a position on the causeway, just north of where Finrod’s people had stood. Orcs were already starting to move cautiously back down the path, and arrows splashed into the pools around him. He grinned at them, let just a little of his essence flare through into the corporeal world, and hefted the spirit-sword.

* * * * * 

 

In Barad Eithel, surrounded by seeing-stones, Fingolfin watched the army of Nargothrond retreat, back to the safety of Tol Sirion on its river-isle, and then further south, to Nargothrond itself. He watched the dragon crawl unstopped south through Maglor’s Gap. He saw Curufin and Celegorm fleeing West, fighting their way with difficulty past the impenetrable protections of Doriath, which offered neither shelter nor aid. He saw Caranthir fleeing South, away from his burning stronghold, and Maedhros stride with Maglor along the battlements of Himring, sweeping back attack after attack, and still new enemies flung themselves at his walls. 

In the hills of Dorthonion, defending the passes as the grey-elves fled South, Fingolfin watched, as Aegnor son of Finarfin was slain, two days after his brother Angrod. 

With him died the last remnant of the Noldor of Dorthonion, all those who had not fled the land that had been theirs for more than four hundred years. Beside them had stood grey-elves and Men, but it was hard to tell the difference now, through the gaze of the stone that had been set up outside Aegnor’s great hall. The hall was burning now, and it was the firelight that lit the scene enough that the bodies could be dimly seen. Dorthonion had fallen to the Enemy. 

Fingolfin sat, terribly still, before the seeing-stones, as his dead half-brother watched with him, silent. At last he stood, and went out onto the high terrace that surrounded the tower. It was quiet out there, for the first time in days: the orc-armies had retreated a little. Their camps, massed on the plains, awaiting another attack, could barely be seen. The elf-archers of Hithlum had taught them to be wary of carrying torches too close to the mountain-walls. The troops in the field had withdrawn a little way. Perhaps they were preparing for some new assault. 

He looked out East, where the massive red glow of Thangorodrim burned beneath a dark and starless sky, and then west. The mountains stood in the way, tall and dark against the sky, like a wall. Morgoth’s dark ash-cloud stretched above them to the horizon. 

Fingolfin took a deep, controlled breath, and went back down the tower steps, calling for his horse. 

Fëanor was the only one who followed him, as the small sally gate was thrown open and Fingolfin the King galloped out onto the charred plains, heading for Angband. The armies of Morgoth were no obstacle, they leaped aside in terror at his passing. To Fëanor’s eyes, the fire of Fingolfin’s spirit blazed out from him, furious and unafraid. 

Fëanor could not let him go alone, even though the touch of Morgoth’s thought burned dark on Fëanor’s spirit as he followed his brother to confront their enemy. 

 

* * * * *

  
Fingolfin, armoured and armed, shone like a star before the dark might of Morgoth. Morgoth trod slowly, heavily, his huge mace in his hand, reluctantly from the iron gates and stood at last revealed under the dark grey skies, there on the plain, black with ash where the air was sharp with smoke.

Fëanor tried to rush to Fingolfin’s side, seeing his enemy at last in clear sight and vulnerable, but he could not. He was held back, forcibly restrained by some power he could feel but not see. 

A voice spoke to him. “Now, you can’t do that. Single combat was the promise. It’s not single combat if you join in. My lord has promised that he will fight your brother alone. A demonstration of his strength and power, against the warmongers out of the West, if you will. And so, alone he will fight. I will see to it.” 

He struggled.  _ Let me go! You cannot hold me! _

“Oh, I can. And I will. You may have been born to be the mightiest of the Children of Illuvatar, but I? I sang, before the Children of Illuvatar were ever thought of. I have powers you don’t, my lord Fëanor, and they are all the greater here and now, when you stand unbodied before the Gates.”

Fëanor stilled for a moment.  _ Why? Why did Morgoth come out for Fingolfin? _

The golden voice laughed. “And not for you? But he did not need to come out for you, did he? The leader of a little force, impetuous, cut to pieces in short order? Oh, don’t struggle, it’s not an insult. He did not need to deal with you personally. You were not known in this Middle-earth. But your brother is the king of a great people now, his name goes far afield. He has trapped my lord in Angband for too long, and now he has called him coward. My lord must show that Fingolfin can be slain. Like a disobedient orc... stay  _ still _ , won’t you?” Whatever was holding him jerked tighter, cut into his spirit like a blade. 

Fëanor tried to strike out at the unseen voice with the spirit-sword, but he could not move. The bindings burned like thin lines of fire, but worst than that was the humiliation of being held in place like one of Morgoth’s thralls. All he could do was watch. 

Six times, Fingolfin struck his enemy. Six times, Morgoth cried out in agony. His mighty hammer was too slow, too slow to catch Fingolfin, who moved like lightning, like the light of star that travels vast distances before the eye can blink. Fëanor began to hope. 

But even the speed of Fingolfin could not last forever. At last he slowed and stumbled. Fëanor fought with a renewed fire, and felt the cords that held him begin to break, but it was too late. 

It only took one misstep, one fall. Fingolfin somehow managed to lift the sword one last time, as he lay, and hew in desperation at his enemy’s foot. But then, without a word, Morgoth broke Fingolfin’s neck.

“And so my lord has shown his strength,” the unseen golden voice said, and Fëanor could not decide if it was triumphant or disappointed. 

Morgoth turned, dragging the great hammer, Grond, and limped away, back through the vast gates. 

The gates ground closed behind him. The binding that had held Fëanor broke at last, and he whirled, looking for the enemy that had held him, but there was no sign of it any more. 

Fingolfin’s spirit stepped from his broken body. It shone, clear and bright in that dark place. Brighter than Fëanor. Only the faintest darkness clouded his light. 

Finwë’s two eldest sons stood face to face again at last. 

_ Brother!  _ Fëanor said and grasped him by the shoulder. Fingolfin’s light flared in surprise.  _ You followed me. I never thought you would. _

_ I have long desired to speak with you again,  _ Fingolfin said slowly.  _ I wish it had happened in another way. Thou shalt lead and I will follow, I said, before the throne of Manw _ ë _ himself. I meant it. _

_ And now I know it. I wish I had understood it sooner. You were loyal beyond my hope...  _

Fëanor paused, groping unexpectedly for the words that usually came so easily. The memory of Maedhros kneeling before Fingolfin came back to him.  _ I am sorry _ , he said, inadequately. 

_ You should have believed me! It would have saved so much pain... So much work, and people, and lives, all wasted! _

_ Yes, _ Fëanor admitted. Fingolfin looked taken aback at that, as if he had been expecting an argument. 

_ I would have fought by your side,  _ Fëanor told him.  _ I tried to come to you sooner. His servant prevented me.  _

_ That, I believe with a whole heart.  No-one has ever accused Fëanor of being afraid of a fight! I should go,  _ Fingolfin said, turning to the West, then turning back to his brother.  _ I hear the call of Mandos. But you have not followed it...? _ There was a questioning note in his voice. 

_ I have not. But we are not the same, brother. You have no oath to hold you. Go freely, and my thanks go with you.  For you have wounded our enemy. I can only hope to do the same.  _

Fingolfin gave him a last long hesitating look.  _ I swore to follow you, brother. I have followed you to the death. Now I take my own path. Farewell until we meet again!  _

He turned and passed swiftly away. The light of his spirit was lost between the blue of the sky and the deeper blue of the distant mountains. 

_ Farewell brother, _ Fëanor said to himself. It was hard to imagine that he might ever miss Fingolfin. His company could drive any sane person to fury. And yet... 

Fëanor turned and went away East across the charred plain. Behind him, a great Eagle stooped and lifted Fingolfin’s body, taking it before the orcs could bring dishonour to it, and winged off south towards Gondolin. 


	4. A Silmaril comes South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy and argument. But mostly, tragedy.

Himring loomed on the skyline, a single tall hill, enclosed by three tall rings of battlements, set with tall towers, from which watchful archers surveyed the land all around. Within the wide walls stood a town, well-provided with wells and huge store-houses, and between the walls there were grassy areas where horses grazed. 

Compared with Fingolfin’s town by the shores of Lake Mithrim, Himring was not much more than a defensive stronghold. It was built to meet attack, and only secondarily to be either comfortable or beautiful. Still, there was a spare elegance to its tough outline against the cold grey northern sky. 

The rivers of fire had reached towards Himring, and the armies of Morgoth had washed around it like the sea around a rock, but the great fortress of Maedhros had stood strong while Dorthonion fell, while the other castles and cities of the North were sacked and burned. 

Now it was a rallying point for the counter-attack. Maedhros was a force of determination and steely skill, both in battle and in strategy, using their surviving forces with precision, tireless and unstoppable.  Beside him, Maglor fought, silent, unhappy and deadly, avenging the loss of his people in the fires of Angband.  Against the two of them few enemies would stand. 

First the hills around Himring were re-taken, then Curufin’s Pass of Aglon, then East to Maglor’s Gap — always a weak point in the Eastern frontier. After that Maedhros led his people further east to join with Caranthir’s forces coming up out of Thargelion to re-take the fortress on Mount Rerir. 

The orcs had burned and spoiled everything they could: homes, fields, orchards, woods and towns. Far beyond the burned plains of Anfauglith, East Beleriand stood in ruins. Burying the dead was a bitter task, but almost worse were the missing. Morgoth’s great beasts and orcs had slain the Men who had settled along the banks of the Gelion and down into Thargelion wherever they could, although they had been fiercely opposed, village by village, farm by farm had fought with every weapon they had. 

But the orcs had seized the Noldor, in particular, wherever they could and marched them away as prisoners, North to Angband. In the chaos after the Dagor Bragollach, it was a long time before the people of the Sons of Fëanor could be sure who it was that had died, and who had been taken. There was no-one now in East Beleriand who did not have friends or relatives who had been seized and carried off.  

Somewhere in the chaos, Maglor’s Sindarin wife, married in a burst of heedless ill-considered optimism during the Long Peace, had been lost.  She might have been killed or taken: they did not know.  So many were gone.  There was little leisure to mourn her, while fighting for their lives. 

Word came from Curufin and Celegorm that they were safe in Nargothrond. They did not seem eager to return to the East, but then to cross back to the East over the dark lands north of Doriath near the tainted valley of Nan Dungortheb was not an easy journey. No doubt, too, Finrod, safe in Nargothrond, was glad of reinforcements and not eager to see his cousins leave. 

Fëanor was not at Himring when Celegorm and Curufin returned there, nine years after Fingolfin’s death. He was with Caranthir’s forces, and his dwarf-allies from Nogrod and Belegost, working to clear the last remnants of the orc-rabble that infested the slopes of Mount Rerir and the North of the Ered Luin. The last orc-army in Thargelion had been broken by Maedhros at a battle by Lake Helevorn two years previously, but the orcs who fled that defeat had gone to ground and were proving hard to dislodge. 

So Fëanor did not see his sons come riding into Himring, quite alone, two of them sharing one tired horse. None of their people had followed them, not even Curufin’s son Celebrimbor. 

He only heard about it later, when Caranthir rode hurriedly down to Himring through the grey autumn rain, summoned by an urgent message.

And by that time, other important news had arrived, too. 

“She walked into Angband. Thingol’s daughter, Lúthien. She cast them all into sleep and she walked into his very throne room, enchanted Morgoth himself and took it. Beren cut the jewel from his iron crown, while she held Morgoth himself in sleep!” Maedhros said, marvelling, to his brothers, in the tall stone-built hall upon the heights of Himring hill.  

“I don’t believe it,” Celegorm said at once. “She didn’t have that kind of art. I would have seen it.” 

Maedhros gave him a quelling look and Celegorm went quiet immediately. Odd behaviour for Celegorm, that was, but clearly there had been some argument between them before Caranthir had arrived, which Maedhros had won. Celegorm and Curufin were unusually silent.  So was Maglor but that was easier to understand.

Fëanor was sorry to hear his correspondent Finrod had been killed — but after all, he had set out to try to take a Silmaril. A pity. He’d hoped his nephew had more sense than that. Finrod had sworn to aid the man, Beren, in the quest assigned to him by Thingol of Doriath, and so his lesser oath had been caught in the net of Fëanor’s great Oath. 

The news had not come direct from Doriath, of course. It had gone from Doriath to Nargothrond, from Nargothrond to Hithlum, and that was where Maedhros, visiting to take counsel with Fingon, now that it was once again possible with care to cross the plains now blackened and bare, that were beginning to be called the Anfauglith, had heard it and brought it back with him.

“So now there are two Silmarils in Angband, and one in the hands of Thingol of Doriath?” Caranthir said, slowly. “That could be...interesting.”

“Yes. But... well, let us not worry about that yet,” Maedhros said. “The important point is, Angband is clearly much more vulnerable than we thought. Lúthien is strong, I’m sure, and very skilled. She and this Man Beren must be insanely brave — but she is not of the Valar. And yet, she has done this! I never thought it could be done. And I have spoken to Fingon, and we have made a plan...”

 

* * * * *

In a long high room in Himring, where the tall windows looked out towards the North, over the burned fields towards Angband, Maedhros had called a council of war.  His eldest son still made a commanding figure, Fëanor thought, for all that he had lost a hand. His eyes burned fiercely with a fury that would set fear in any servant of the Enemy. 

“It is time,” he said, standing tall on the dais, lifting his voice so assembled captains of Men, the war-leaders of the Dwarves and his own followers could all hear him clearly. 

“You have all heard the tales. Long ago, Fingon came to my rescue, when I was captured by Morgoth, and one of the Eagles of Manwë himself aided our escape from Thangorodrim. Now, Fingon the Valiant leads us in the attack. His father, Fingolfin, gave us hundreds of years of peace and struck a great blow against the Enemy. Now Lúthien has taken one of the Silmarils from Morgoth. Believe me when I say to you, that Morgoth is not invulnerable. He can be hurt, he can be robbed, he can be defeated. If we strike together, Elves, Men and Dwarves can bring him down. Are you with us?”

Maedhros poured all his father’s eloquence into that speech. Fists pounded on the long oak tables, expressing enthusiastic support. 

 

* * * * * 

 

Afterwards, while the Men and Dwarves were still enjoying the great feast that Caranthir had organised for them, Curufin said quietly to his eldest brother “You know, we could first pursue the Silmaril that Lúthien took from the Iron Crown, the one that is in Doriath. If it wasn’t for Thingol of Doriath, we’d have a united front against the Enemy. Well, almost.”

“No,” Maedhros said, calmly, sipping hot spiced apple wine. He smiled at young Borthand, the youngest son of Bór, who had been given the honour of being cup-bearer to the Lord of Himring for this great feast. He was looking a little overwhelmed.

“Borthand, would you take a jug of this wine to Lord Azaghâl and give him my personal compliments? He’s the Dwarf with the red beard and all the beads over there. One of the good jugs, with the inlaid gems. Thank you.”

Curufin said, determined to press his point, “The Sindar won’t help us as long as he sits there in Doriath, refusing us any aid. And we fought right past him, Celegorm and I, and we were hard-pressed. Did he do one thing to help us? No.”

Maglor, seated at the head of a table of Eastern Men and wearing a smile that, if you knew him very well, you could see was not quite real, glanced at his brothers and lifted his harp.

He began to sing a rude song about Morgoth’s lieutenant and his curious taste for root vegetables. It was not in Maglor’s usual style, but it was both popular and loud, and the way Maglor played it, it was curiously hard to hear anything else, even before the Men began to sing along. 

“We can’t do anything to compel Thingol. We’d never get past the border. And anyway, we don’t need them,” Maedhros told Curufin. “We have armies of Men, our friends the Dwarves, and our own people. Many of the Sindar are with us — Círdan will not wait for Doriath, he will come to Fingon’s aid — and the Grey Elves of Mithrim, who have always been loyal to the High King.” 

Celegorm made an exasperated noise. Maedhros put his cup down on the table, hard enough that a little wine slopped over the embossed golden rim. 

“No. We are not talking about that any more. Fingon is High King, as his father was. I have sworn it. You would not have me break my oath? He unites the Noldor as I never could, and he’ll be a much better king. It’s done!” There was a furious certainty to his voice that made the others pause. Maedhros, when his mind was made up, was not easily gainsaid. 

“Nobody is saying Fingon should not be High King,” Curufin said, sounding calm and diplomatic. “But an attack on Morgoth himself? Are you sure about this?”

“Luthien had one Man and a dog. Your dog, wasn’t it, Celegorm? And yet now Morgoth has only two Silmarils in his crown. No!” Maedhros held up his hand as Curufin began to speak again. “I will not hear it. Any attack on Doriath would lose us other support.”

“You mean Fingon,” Celegorm said cynically.

“Yes, I mean Fingon!” Maedhros paused, clearly making an effort to keep hold of his temper, so that his voice would not rise enough to be audible over the general hum, and his anger would not be visible to those sitting further away. “Fingon would certainly consider any aggression towards Doriath to be rebellion. Even if you have forgotten all we owe him — all _ I _ owe him — he is our most loyal ally. Just his name is worth a great deal. And he needs this as much as we do. Hithlum is as vulnerable as we are, next time Morgoth decides to test us.” He took a long sip from his cup. “Anyway, I still have some hope that Thingol will choose to surrender the Silmaril to us.”

“Did you  _ read  _ his letter? I think that’s most unlikely,” Curufin said, half under his breath.  Fëanor had read the letter too, and shared his doubts.  Elwë Thingol of Doriath seemed even more obdurate than his brother of Alqualondë.  

“Yes. I read the letter. And I remember who it was that insisted that the letter we sent to him should use the words it did.” Maedhos gave Curufin an unimpressed look. “Curufin, you have already lost us most of the support we should have from Nargothrond. Celegorm, Thingol might not be quite so bitter against us if it were not for the way you treated his daughter! I don’t know what has come over you. I thought better of you both.

“Enough of this. The Silmaril is safe in Doriath, and we will come to that once we have dealt with the two that are in the hands of our true Enemy, he who killed our father and our grandfather.”

Celegorm and Curufin looked at one another, but were silent. 

Fëanor wished that Curufin had been able to put up a better argument: it was irritating to see his favorite son so easily silenced. Feanor would have liked to hear more of his reasoning. It did seem a little odd that Curufin should think the one Silmaril of Doriath as urgent than the two in Angband. 

Though Fëanor had no time for Thingol, he had to admit Maedhros was right: they must defeat Morgoth first. To risk creating further divisions between his enemies would be repeating a mistake already made once, and that was pure stupidity. Thingol could be dealt with later. 

And what had Curufin been up to in Nargothrond anyway? Why had he persuaded the army of Nargothrond that Morgoth was too strong to attack, and that defeat was inevitable?

Fëanor was not at all comfortable with the way that Curufin and Celegorm had come to Nargothrond fleeing the enemy, then undermined Finrod the king in the eyes of his own people. Finrod was wrong, of course. The Silmarils could not go to any owner who was not of the House of Fëanor, Finrod must know that as well as anyone. But Curufin’s answer seemed so... petty. Something was not quite right with Curufin. 

And as for Celegorm! Holding a woman captive and trying to bring her to marriage against her will? It was utterly against all laws and precedents of the Noldor. How a son of his could behave in such a manner was a mystery, and even more mysterious was that Curufin should support him in it!

Fëanor was uneasily aware that Curufin and Celegorm, of all his seven sons, were those who had been closest to him since his death. They were the sons to whom he had spoken in dreams. 

He considered the veil of darkness which slid and moved like smoke upon the fire of his being; had it touched them? Or was it simply the darkness and the fire of Morgoth that ran through all things East of the Sea that made it hard to see which way was best?

Nobody mentioned Celebrimbor any more. Fëanor had gathered that his grandson had chosen to remain in Nargothrond with his kinsman Orodreth when Celegorm and Curufin had been shown the door, but he had not heard anyone say so in so many words.  

Celebrimbor should be safe enough in the cave-fortress of Nargothrond, but still, Fëanor would have felt happier if he was at Himring where Fëanor could keep an eye on him. Fëanor did not care to venture as far as Nargothrond, just now, and leave his sons behind.  The rivers of fire and the hands of the orcs had taken too many.  But now perhaps at last the tide was turning.

* * * * * *

 

The armies of Maedhros and his brothers stretched into the distance : armoured in rings of dwarf-forged steel from the mountain-kingdoms or in Noldorin alloys or in leather out of Estolad, armed with swords that shone with a deadly light. The hills still provided them with some cover, for now; Morgoth’s spies would have to come close to get a clear idea of their numbers or purpose, and although nobody now lived North of the hills, out on the burned plains, there were many watchers stationed there. Spies would not get close. Very soon now they would march out to meet the armies of Fingon — the High King, Fëanor supposed he must be called —  waiting for them outside Hithlum. 

Then came word out of the North, from one of Caranthir’s vassals. An army had been sighted, coming out of the far east of the Iron Mountains. Morgoth’s spies had clearly been as efficient as they had feared. 

“We have to meet them,” Amrod told them. He happened to be the commander who had received the word when it had come in, late one night, and he had hastily roused the others. “We’d be leaving an army unfought behind us. They’ll come right around into our rearguard and cut off our supply lines.”

“Agreed,” Maedhros decided. “It will make us late to our meeting with Fingon, but I can’t see any help for that now. It need not take long.”

“If we can deal with this threat swiftly, then we can turn west with little delay and march straight across the plain,” Caranthir agreed. 

“Fingon’s forces will stay under cover in the woods and valleys of the Ered Wethrin until he sees us. So we shall hold Morgoth’s armies between us in a steel trap,” Maedhros said. “Are we all agreed, my lords and brothers?” 

Nobody disagreed. 

But when the Fëanorian armies sped swiftly up the eastern flank of the Ered Luin, even though they marched close to the shadow of the Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains of the North that surrounded and defended Morgoth’s stronghold of Angband, there was nothing to be found. 

There were only a few scattered bands of wolf-riders who fled at the sight of them, and the occasional miserable strayed thrall, impossible to tell if each was a wretched slave, or a dangerous spy: some were both at once. These they slew on sight. Caranthir’s grim jest, that poor old Mandos would have his work cut out sorting out which was which, ran around the army like fire. It had become a saying that everyone knew, from the dwarves to the tall Men of the East, by the time they came close enough to Thangorodrim to see, in horror, what had been happening there. 

Somehow, a great battle was already raging there. The High King’s troops, which should have been awaiting them in the mountains were already fully engaged. Great plumes of dust rose from the charred plain everywhere that the fighting stirred the ground, and rose to meet the grey clouds overhead. Fingon’s people were striped black and white with ash, and so were their enemies. Everywhere across the plain lay the dead. 

“What happened to waiting for us in the cover of the valleys of Ered Wethrin?” Celegorm wondered aloud. 

Maedhros’ face was pale and furious, and his eyes blazed. “Sound the trumpets,” he ordered, ripping his sword from his scabbard. As the trumpets rang out, he urged his horse to the gallop, and behind him came all the strength of East Beleriand, Elf, Dwarf and Man striking into the exposed flank of the great force of orcs that held the forces of the High King at bay. 

They came so close to pushing through to join the two forces, before Morgoth threw in his reserves. So close, you could almost taste it. Then a great force of Balrogs, trolls and dragons, led by the great dragon Glaurung, now full-grown and deadly, armed with flame and armoured with great scales like shields, came thundering into the fight. 

Fëanor whirled through the battle, unseen but none the less deadly. He could make no mark on the great dragon with his spirit-sword, but Glaurung’s dragon-brood were not so well armoured. 

He was engaged in slaying one of them when he realised that the Fëanorian army had split in two. Many of the Men were fleeing the field, but some of them had turned on their allies and were treacherously attacking them from the rear. 

They were beaten back.  And back.  And back again. Night fell, and still they fought.  From the glimpses that they had caught of Fingon’s distant forces, the battle had been raging for at least a day before they had reached the fight.  There was no news, and no leisure to ask for any. 

By the second nightfall, the Fëanorian offensive was in confusion. The Dwarves stood stout, ringing the great Dragon in heavy armour that defended against the flame and holding it at bay, but the rest of the force was in chaos. Maedhros was killing Men under his brother Caranthir’s own banner, still unable, no matter how many he slew,  to cut a way through to Fingon’s side. 

Fëanor could not see Curufin, Celegorm or Amras anywhere. Instead of one force, there were many, all struggling for survival, being beaten back, and back — and Fingon’s forces under their ash-striped silver banners were further away than ever, barely to be seen in the darkening distance. Fëanor followed Maedhros’s banner through the melee until the banner-bearer went down.

Then Azaghâl the Dwarf-king fell, slain by Glaurung, although he marked the great dragon fiercely before he went, and Glaurung, injured, fled the field. The Dwarves closed around Azaghâl, picked up his body, and left the battle. They took all the Dwarves close enough to follow with them. 

The retreat went from bad to worse. By the time Azaghal was killed, there was not much left of the combined army any more, and all Fëanor could do was try to help to protect the rearguard as they retreated in the gathering dusk, slowly becoming not so much an army as a desperate knot of Elves, Men and Dwarves fighting side by side.  Azaghal’s bodyguard had taken most of the Dwarvish army with it, but some had been caught up in the battle and had tagged onto the rout of the Fëanorian force instead.

They were too far off now to see if Fingon’s army still stood, and there was no no hope left of winning through to him. 

Somehow, all of Fëanor’s sons stood among the survivors, although Caranthir had dropped his shield and the arm that had held it was hanging limp. Amrod was limping badly and bleeding freely from a deep gash in his thigh, leaning on his twin. They had lost their horses when the Dragon attacked - or almost all of them, anyway. Fëanor had thought that Celegorm had been lost, but at the last minute he came riding out of the fray to join them, still mounted on a near-spent horse. Celegorm had always had a talent with horses. 

Then the battle was behind them. None left the field unscathed. Even without a body to wound, Fëanor felt the weight of Morgoth’s dark thought upon him. 

It was only much later, when they had managed to make their perilous way back across the plains and south almost to the Gap of Maedhros, that news of the Western army came to them, with a handful of stragglers fleeing east on exhausted horses. 

Fingon the High King had died on the field of battle, slain by Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. The western army was gone. Hithlum had fallen to the Enemy. It was bitter news for all of them, but most of all for Maedhros. He had been grim and quiet since they had been forced to retreat; now he moved as if he were in a bad dream, unspeaking. 

It was left to Maglor to lead them on towards Himring. But as they came in sight of the fortress on the hill, there was more bad news. Orcs were flooding in through the gates, even though Maedhros’s banners were still flying on the high towers. 

By chance, they came on one of Maedhros’s stablehands in the hills just to the west of the fort. She had managed to escape the fortress through the hidden passages that long ago had been built into the hill itself, and had been fortunate that the next company that she encountered had been led by her own king. 

Caranthir swore bitterly when they heard the details. The fortress had fallen to treachery. It had opened the gates to Men, allies of Ulfang carrying Caranthir’s own banners. “I will never trust Men again,” he said furiously, his hand pointlessly on his sword-hilt. 

“Young Borthand and his brothers were loyal enough,” Amrod said, bracing himself painfully on the shaft of a spear. “I saw him kill that traitorous cur Ulfast myself. He beat me to it. You can’t blame all of them.”

“We have to get going again,” Maglor told them all, wearily, raising his cracked voice a little so that all the leaders could hear him. “If they have taken Himring, it will not be long before they are all over these hills. We have to get further South, at least across the river into Thargelion, before we rest.”

“There might be others of our people coming this way,” Amras pointed out. “If the gates are closed and they cannot see orcs, they may still think Himring is in our hands.”

“Right.” Maglor took a deep breath. “Yes. We cannot leave Himring as a trap. We should leave a small force here, hidden in the hills, to meet anyone who has got away. Celegorm, you are uninjured, would you take command of that..?”

“No. I will take it,” Maedhros said. It was the first time he had spoken since they had found out about Fingon, and Maglor gave him a worried look. “These were my hills. I know them better than any of you. I and what is left of the Himring garrison will wait here. The rest of you, go on across the river.” 

“You should come to Gabilgathol, Elflord,” one of the Dwarves said; a Dwarf of status, it was clear, wearing the badge of Azaghâl’s house and a heavy gold arm-ring set with a yellow stone like the eye of a cat. “The mountain-fortresses are strong. Even against these terrible fire-demons, our stone gates will hold.”

“They are strong indeed,” Maedhros said gravely. He looked almost his usual self, if you did not look too carefully at his eyes. “My brothers will gratefully accept your hospitality, at least for a few days. I will join you there as swiftly as I can.” 

* * * * * *

 

Of all the kingdoms of the Noldor, only the hidden cities, Nargothrond and Gondolin, still stood. All the rest had fallen. Morgoth’s armies roamed unrestrained into Beleriand, and those Elves that remained, lived by concealment, or because Morgoth had unaccountably not yet devoted his full attention to them. 

To the hidden camps and woodland villages, survivors came trickling in; a more few Noldor, burned and injured, who had somehow made it back across the plains. A handful of guards and servants who had escaped the trap of Himring, farmers and fishermen from the north of Thargelion fleeing south from the orcs that now marched unrestrained through the wide pass that had been called Maglor’s Gap and south into Beleriand. 

At Caranthir’s insistence, the Men were not allowed to stay, not even those that came as fugitives, who could be recognised as those who had been loyal to the house of Bór. They were sent back into the east, across the Ered Luin by the dwarf-road over the Pass of Dolmed. Word came from the dwarves that they had settled along the River Baranduin. 

It was a strange, shifting life in the woods of Ossiriand and Thargelion, in the foothills of the Ered Luin and in what was left of East Beleriand. Fëanor’s sons had been great lords with armies and castles at their command: now they were often fighting in enemy territory, wary and unsupported, conducting small desperate battles in the woods against the orcs and warg-riders that raided across the River Gelion, or dared to try to cross the Andram escarpment into South Beleriand. Their settlements were small, always ready to move in a hurry, save only for the fortress on Amon Ereb, now hastily set fully in defense by Maedhros, and the fortifications along the Andram Wall. Neither had been intended as frontier forts, but now must act as them. 

The seeing stones of Himring, of Mount Rerir, of the fortresses of Aglon were all lost to them. There was little time, and no workshop supplied sufficiently to make more of them. 

Maedhros had had one stone with him, Curufin another and there was a third at Amon Ereb.   It was some time before Maedhros had time and art to spare to use them to look back through time, to see the story of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears unfold from the western flank. 

In silence, in the tall shadowed room in Amon Ereb, Curufin, Maedhros, Amrod and Amras watched, as Gelmir of Nargothrond was dragged before the assembled hosts of Hithlum, watching from the safety of the woods and hills of the east-slopes of Ered Wethrin, and was tortured to death. 

They all knew Gelmir and his brother Guilin.  The brothers had ridden out with Finrod, their king, to hunt with Amrod and Amras, with Maedhros and with Maglor in the wilds of Beleriand.  They had travelled home again to Nargothrond through the Pass of Aglon, and had stayed as guests with Curufin and Celegorm there. Curufin, presumably, had known Gwindor in Nargothrond, too, though Gelmir had been lost by then, carried off alive into Angband. 

Maedhros looked away, as Gelmir was blinded, as his arms and legs were hacked off.  Curufin, Amrod and Amras stared at the faint and distant vision in the stone in wide-eyed horror.  Fëanor watched their faces, tired and horrified, and would have wept for them as well as Gelmir, if he had been able. 

Gwindor, his face filled with grief and fury at his brother’s torment, broke the line.

“Oh no,” Amrod breathed, reaching out, vainly, as if to stop him, as if a voice, a whisper out of the future could reach Gwindor, and he could be called back.  This must have been only a few hours after Amrod had heard the rumour of an enemy host behind them, from the position of the sun.  

All of Fingon’s great host followed Gwindor, provoked into the battle far too soon. 

They had been fighting for three days before Maedhros and his forces had arrived.  Three days lost, because Maedhros had been delayed, because Gwindor had been provoked. 

No wonder Fingon had not been able to cut his way through to meet them. 

No wonder the full fury of the Enemy’s reserves had been ready to face their charge.  The western host must have been past exhaustion by the time the forces of East Beleriand had reached the battle. 

“So now we know,” Maedhros said.  He reached out and ended the vision, and his expression had never been more cold and grim, not even when he had returned from torment upon the mountain.   

Curufin’s eyes were wide and dark. Amrod put an arm around his shoulder and held on tightly.   Amras was weeping silently. 

Maedhros glanced at Curufin’s shocked face. 

“A pity Finrod was not there to hold his people back,” he said pointedly, and Fëanor could not help but think him cruel. 

Curufin closed his eyes.   “I didn’t  _ want  _ Finrod to die,” he said.  He took a deep breath and met his eldest brother’s eyes. “I did what I thought I had to do. You are not the only one who wanted to win!   And you know we all swore allegiance to Fingon, and there is not one of us who gives his word lightly. ”

“No,” Maedhros said, and he looked very tired and grey. 

“We still have an oath to fulfill,” Curufin said, steadily enough. “We would have a better chance of fulfilling it if the High King had lived.  We needed him. You were right about that.   I would have died for him for that reason, and because we owe him more than we can hope to repay, too. It wasn't like it was with his father. We _owed_ Fingon.  And that goes for Celegorm, too.  You might doubt my courage, but you surely won’t be doubting his.”

“Oh, Curvo,” Maedhros said.  He rubbed his eyes. They were dry.  Fëanor would have felt much happier if his eldest son had wept.  “I did not mean to doubt your courage, or your word,” he said.  Curufin ducked his head silently, and after a moment, left.  


	5. Failing Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the last defence of Beleriand and the death of Thingol.

In the wake of Nirnaeth Arnoediad, there followed a seemingly endless round of small skirmishes, exhausting to the spirit and wearing to the nerves. Fëanor fought silently beside his sons, careful not to make his presence obvious, but still, an unsleeping, unseen terror to the servants of the Enemy.  It was dispiriting to see how little they could now achieve.There was rarely time to think of anything but the immediate problems: the approach of the enemy, provisions, water, fire, brief moments of rest. 

The raiding bands of orcs, the wraiths and giant wandering spiders that now appeared across the land were bad enough, but the hardest of all was dealing with their own people whose minds had been broken.

Amrod came riding back out of the night to Midcastle.  It was the only fort along the Andram wall that they still had people enough to garrison, save from the few people still left holding on in Wallsend.  The tattered remnant of his warband was behind him. Almost all were injured: all exhausted. Amras came running down to meet him as the horses clattered through the gates. Fëanor followed, worried.

It was rare that the twins went out together to fight, now; it worked better to have one to hold the wall while the other commanded the roving patrols. It was hard on them though: once, they had taken joy in doing everything together as one. But those days were gone. 

“What happened?” Amras demanded, as Amrod dismounted painfully. He had a leg-wound, the kind you got when someone on the ground struck up at you on horseback, but usually orcs could not reach so high. 

“One of Morgoth’s thralls,” Amrod told him. Amras made a frustrated noise. “I know, I know. I was foolish.” 

“You know better than that!” Amras said. He pulled his brother’s arm across his shoulders and began to help him up the steps. Someone took Amrod’s horse, and others were helping what was left of Amrod’s troop. It was a well-rehearsed process, by now. 

“Yes, but it was Laitar. He hadn’t been gone long, and after all, he came with us from Valinor. He was strong, I thought. He came back with three others... Nairien over there was one of them, the only one who lived. I checked the others. There was no sign of darkness in their eyes at all, they had not been taken to Angband, I’m sure of it. Then there was a spider, and I was tired... I didn’t check Laitar. He was my friend, after all.”

“Oh, no,” Amras said, with a kind of sick resignation. They reached the hall. He supported Amrod to a bench, and started to help him take his armour off. 

“I know. Foolish of me.” 

“I’m sorry about Laitar.” 

“I am, too. And sorrier for the three guards he stabbed to let his orc friends get near us without an alert.”

“You know it was not really him,” Amras said, checking the wound carefully. It looked clean,that was something. 

“No. No, of course not,” Amrod said wearily. “Or if it was, he was locked deep inside himself, unable to say or do anything to warn me... I had to shoot him. He tried to run back to Angband.”

Amras rubbed his face, miserably. “Not another one.”

“Laitar was my friend. He was. He would not have done it, if he had any choice. I should have checked his eyes.” Amrod’s face was pale and his eyes were wet. Fëanor would have given almost anything to be able to put an arm around him. 

“Even if you had, very likely you could not have freed him,” Amras said gently. “Morgoth’s will is strong.”

“Maglor has done it,” Amrod said, obstinately. 

“Only twice. And Maglor has an advantage anyway, being a singer. He was practicing for this before we ever knew it was possible, you know that.” 

Amrod wilted. “I suppose so. I’ll never know, now. I hope Mandos will be kind to him.” 

“Have a drink,” Amras said, offering a cup, because there was no other comfort that could be offered.

* * * * * *

 

Curufin and Amrod stood high up in the heather-covered hills of the Andram Wall, looking out east over Wallsend. It was raining a little, a slight thin rain that caught the afternoon light. The lonely hill of Amon Ereb loomed in the misty blue distance across the plains. You could see the outline of Caranthir’s hastily-expanded fort on the crest of the hill, and just make out the faint shape of new walls around the base of it, shades of grey-blue against the misty distance. 

“Why ask me?” Curufin said bitterly. “I thought you had all agreed not to trust me with anything, since Nargothrond.”  

“Because this is something you are very good at,” Amrod said. He shrugged. “And, in all honesty, I cannot say what I would have done in Nargothrond either. It can’t have been easy.”

“Thank you!” Curufin said. “No, it was not. It really was not easy! I know Maedhros thinks we should have consulted him and Fingon, but I still have no idea how that would have helped. Finrod’s oath and ours were in direct conflict. Celegorm and I could see no other path. We had to do  _ something. _ ” 

Amrod looked sideways at his brother and changed the subject. “So this gap,” he said. “Is there any device you can think of? We would struggle to hold the Andram, if it came to it, but with Amras in the west and me at the eastern end, we could try. But the plains between here and Amon Ereb are quite impossible to defend, so far as I can see.”

“I can’t see a way to fortify it,” Curufin admitted. You could see it hurt him to admit it, but Fëanor did not dare to reach out to him with comfort or suggestions. “Maglor’s Gap was always a weak point, and this is wider. And we have fewer people to hold this plain than the Gap, now.” 

“We barely have the people to hold the Andram Wall,” Amrod agreed. “If I pull people off guard duty in the hills to try to build fortifications across the gap to Amon Ereb, then we risk losing control of the crossing of the Sirion in the west. And if Morgoth gets hold of the east bank of Sirion....That would mean no more supplies from the Falas. Not to mention ruin for what’s left of our people south of the Wall. We have herds on that land, and we need access to the Taur-im-Duinath. Wood,  _ hithlain _ for rope, and then there’s food, fruit, nuts and honey and... well everything. Without that, there’s nothing but Ossiriand.”

“Yes, I do understand the tactical problem, Amrod,” Curufin said testily. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“Did I say you were? I was only thinking aloud. No need to be so prickly!”

“I can’t spin defences from the air!” Curufin exclaimed. “I lost my workshops with Himlad, and my people to... to Nargothrond.” 

Curufin’s people had stayed with his son, of course, but at the moment Curufin seemed barely able to speak of Celebrimbor at all. Fëanor, listening, ached for him. He had always expected loyalty from his sons, and they had delivered it, even Maedhros, who sometimes seemed almost too willing to follow his own ideas, had followed Fëanor when it counted. For Celebrimbor to have turned away from his own father to Orodreth, of all people, was hard on Curufin. It was a pity that Celebrimbor’s mother had not come to Middle-earth. A pity for Curufin, too. The three of them had been so close. 

“I know, I know,” Amrod said. “It was a faint hope. I just thought you might be able to come up with something. You often do. Amras and I can lend you a few people. Caranthir and Maedhros will too, if you can think of something useful to do with them.”

“And they would obey my orders? My own people refused!” Curufin laughed without any obvious sign of being amused. 

“If I tell them to, yes, they will.” Amrod said, patiently. 

“Maglor won’t help. He thinks if it had been him in Nargothrond he would have done better. Convinced Finrod, somehow, to break his oath, while keeping his own, and then have Finrod join us with Nargothrond’s full strength in our union. I’d like to have seen him try.” 

“I don’t believe he has thought it out,” Amrod said. “He is just unhappy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Curufin rolled his eyes. 

“Maglor will help if Maedhros tells him to. Come on. Think about the problem, at least. I know the situation isn’t ideal, but it’s what we have to work with.”

Curufin laughed more genuinely this time. “Suddenly I feel my youngest brother is more grown-up than I am,” he said. “Spinning defences from the air... Hm. You mentioned rope. How if we at least set a warning line across from the Andram to Amon Ereb? It wouldn’t hold back a dragon, but we could use it to give warning of orc-bands on the plains, at least, so we can intercept them. And we could do it simply with rope, we only need something to hold the line.”  

Fëanor could not but be proud of him for that.  He had lost almost everything, and yet, he had not stopped thinking and making. Amrod, too was making the best of things, and taking the time to help his brother too. 

Amrod grinned at Curufin. “See! I knew that you’d come up with something. That would be a lot of rope, but I think we might be able to manage it. Let’s go and check what supplies we already have.” 

 

* * * * * * 

A cold night at the start of winter, the wind blowing snowflakes in wild spirals around the eaves of a small thatch-roofed house, one of a small cluster of buildings somewhere lost in the darkness of the western slopes of the Ered Luin. The orcs and Easterlings did not care for snow, and so, unusually, three of Fëanor’s sons found themselves together for a short while, with their father’s spirit looking on in silence. 

Maglor blew gently into the long wooden tube, listening for the tone. He took out his long knife and made a small adjustment to it, blew again, a long, haunting call, and another fine shaving peeled carefully from the smooth wood.

“Why don’t you make another harp?” Amras asked him idly. He was sitting on a low stool made from a tree-stump, darning socks by the light of the fire. “I thought you preferred harps to flutes?” 

“Can’t get the strings,” Maglor told him, stroking the base of the pipe gently with the knife to even it off. “I don’t like gut or hair for harp strings. I tried both. The sound isn’t so clean and they go slack in the wet. I prefer metal strings. They have a better tone.” 

“You can’t get some from our friends in the mountains?” 

“I’d prefer not to ask them for non-essentials,” Maglor said, drily. “They send us supplies in return for defending their frontiers. I’m not sure their generosity extends to sending me luxuries that I cannot pay for. Best to keep some goodwill for when we really need it.” 

“You may be right,” Maedhros agreed. He was making arrow-flights from grey goose-feathers, a small, wickedly-sharp knife in his left hand, and the feather caught neatly in the grasp of the silver hand that he wore upon the stump where his right hand should be. “You know that’s why they always like Caranthir so much? He has always kept very detailed accounts. So Azaghâl told me once. The mark of an honorable person, the Dwarves say.”

Maglor laughed. “He did well enough out of them, from all I have heard!”

“But now his treasures have gone to Ulfang and his friends anyway, so he might as well not have bothered,” Amras said with a grimace. 

“Ask Celegorm to send them some venison in payment for some harp-strings,” Maedhros suggested. “He always says the hunting’s good down there by the river.” 

Maglor grimaced. “No.”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “This again? He’s your brother. You can’t ignore him. I know you don’t really hate him...”

“I’m not asking Celegorm for anything,” Maglor told him tersely. “He imprisoned Lúthien when she asked him for aid, and tried to force her into marriage. Almost exactly what Eöl did to poor Aredhel, and I thought Celegorm was shocked by that! He may be my brother, he may have been stupid enough to swear the cursed Oath with the rest of us but I don’t have to like him. Or Curufin, for that matter. I’m amazed Curufin let him get away with it. I’m amazed that Celegorm would think of such a thing! I _ liked _ Finrod. And he was brave. A lot braver than Curufin.” 

Anger flamed hot in Fëanor, but he held it back. Maglor had done his duty every step of the way. He did not have to be happy about it.

“I liked Finrod, too,” Maedhros said bleakly. “But I don’t think his death was entirely Curufin’s fault. Do you remember Finrod’s people, back at the Mereth Aderthad? They thought themselves the most fortunate of the Noldor in Middle-earth: no blood on their hands and a shining leader to follow. He was going to build them a new city, as beautiful as anything in Aman. They loved him, I would swear it. They did follow him to the Dagor Bragollach, after all. And most of Nargothrond crossed the Grinding Ice with Finrod.”

“You think Finrod didn’t try very hard to oppose Curufin? Hmm.” Maglor carefully cut a new hole in the flute. 

“If Finrod had really wanted to lead the whole of Nargothrond to march on Angband, I believe he could have convinced them. In fact, I wonder if he had tried to leave Nargothrond without renouncing the crown, if they would have let him go.”

“So he used Curufin to try to keep his city safe. It’s certainly a more comfortable way of looking at it,” Amras said. 

“More comfortable from our point of view, certainly. I’m not at all sure that it’s right.” Maglor said, frowning. 

“Finrod was far from stupid,” Maedhros said. “If he had insisted that they all come with him, the whole city would have died. They might have retaken Tol Sirion, but I can’t believe they would have got into Angband. If you had a free choice to follow Curufin or Finrod, who would you pick? Even Celegorm and Curufin’s own people did not follow them away from Nargothrond: they chose Celebrimbor.” 

Maglor held out a hand in an equivocal gesture of acknowledgement. “I still think it was craven of our brothers. They took advantage of Finrod’s hospitality. And what was Curufin thinking, convincing Nargothrond that Morgoth was too strong to attack and they would all suffer horribly? We could have used their support. Who knows, perhaps they might even have turned the tide, if their whole army had come out again at the Nirnaeth! For that matter, if they had asked Lúthien for a fair alliance rather than penning her in a cave, think how she might have helped us! For what she did to Sauron, I’d...” Maglor stopped abruptly, almost as if he had choked. 

“You’d have let her have and hold a Silmaril?” Maedhros said, disbelieving. Fëanor stared at Maglor.  He did not believe it either. 

“No.” Maglor said with some difficulty. “No, perhaps not that. But something could have been agreed, surely. And it is thanks to Curufin that Nargothrond would not fight. No wonder he fled his lands at the first serious threat. He’s craven. I thought better of him. I thought better of both of them!”

Maedhros shrugged. “Well, he was right, wasn’t he? Morgoth was too strong. Too strong for Finrod, too strong for me and... and all of us.” There was an awkward silence. Nobody mentioned Fingon but everyone was thinking of him. “It was Thingol of Doriath who sent Finrod out to die, not Curufin. Perhaps I should have listened more to Curufin, before. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, until we get the Silmarils back.” 

“You used not to think that way,” Maglor said. “You used to think there was more to it than that.”

“That was before,” Maedhros said. There was a long pause, though which the faint crackling of the fire was the only sound. 

“Well, ask Caranthir then,” Amras said at last. “Caranthir can afford harp strings, even now.”

Maglor grinned humorlessly. “Alas for Caranthir, funding all of our endeavours! I don’t think I have the nerve. Good harp strings are expensive. And, after all, I’ve never made a flute myself before. It will be interesting. ” 

He blew gently into the pipe again, and made a fluid trilling sound, like a nightingale singing. 

Maedhros stilled, staring into the fire, a goose quill still caught in his silver hand. It was clear to Fëanor’s perception at least that he was speaking in thought to someone, but he could not see who it was. A long moment, and then Maedhros blinked and looked across the fire at his brothers. His face was grave.

“Celebrimbor has opened his mind to me. Nargothrond has fallen to the Great Dragon. Orodreth the king is dead. Most of the people of Nargothrond... they were slain in battle, or taken as thralls.”

Maglor put his face in his hands. 

“But Celebrimbor lives. Is he free?” Amras asked urgently. 

“Yes, he was not taken. He fled south after the battle with those of his people that survived. He is at Círdan's Havens at the mouths of Sirion. Most of the other survivors have fled into the woods of Doriath. It seems that Thingol has let go of his objections to the Noldor enough to offer them sanctuary.” 

“But of course Doriath would not accept a son of the House of Fëanor. So he has gone to Círdan, rather than come to us,” Maglor said frowning.

“Yes. I suppose he did at least contact me with the news.” 

“Why did he open his mind to you, and not to his father?” Amras wondered. 

“I am his lord,” Maedhros shrugged as if that entirely explained why his nephew might not wish to speak to his own father, after so long an absence.   Fëanor was not at all sure that it did.  Celebrimbor and his father had been so close. 

“Celebrimbor does not care to open his mind to his father, any more than I would myself,” Maglor said. 

“That, too. But still, it doesn’t matter. Only the Silmarils matter.”

It was warm by the fire, for all that the night was cold outside, and yet Maglor looked at his elder brother and he shivered.   It seemed that Maglor, too, was losing his nerve.

* * * * *

Fëanor could remember a time, not so very long ago, when Caranthir would not have thought of being seen drinking ale with a dwarf in public. But Caranthir now, cheerfully lounging on a bench in a worn leather coat with a battered sword at his hip, was a very different Caranthir from the haughty prince in silks and gems who had once been so careful of his dignity. 

They were sitting at the inn near the main gate of the great dwarf-city that the residents called Gabilgathol, but which was usually referred to outside of it by the Elvish name of Belegost, looking out west across the mountain-road to Beleriand, stretching away blue and purple into the sunlit distance. Even now, the servants of Morgoth never came so far into the Blue Mountains as Gabilgathol. The Gates stood open, traders were coming and going, and the mountain-city would have looked almost like a city at peace, if it had not been for the number of watchful guards. 

“They did  _ what _ ?” Caranthir demanded, putting his cup down abruptly on the low table. 

“Some craftsmen from Tumunzahar have killed King Thingol,” the dwarf, Audur, told him again. 

“But... how?” 

“They were doing some jewellery-work for him, there in Doriath. He refused to pay, or so we heard. They walked right out of Menegroth with it. The elves only caught them when they reached the fords of the Aros. Even then, some of them got away. ”

“Wait. They walked right out of Menegroth with... with what, Audur?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They killed Thingol, and took the Nauglamir, the Necklace of the Dwarves that long ago we made for Felagund, that was taken from the ruin of Nargothrond. And Thingol had tasked them to set into it, the Silmaril...” 

“WHAT?!” Caranthir leapt to his feet. “But... no, they were caught, you say. So the Silmaril is still in Doriath?” 

“Well,” Audur looked uncomfortable behind her beard, and felt the need to carefully turn her golden arm-ring until the yellow stone caught the light. “No. Because  _ then, _ Tumunzahar declared war on Doriath. They sacked Menegroth, and took the Nauglamir. ”

“Impossible.” Caranthir laughed harshly. “Nobody can sack Menegroth. Doriath is protected by the arts of Melian.” 

“No more. Queen Melian has vanished, now that Thingol is dead. Doriath was unprotected. It has fallen. It’s true!” she added hastily, for Curufin’s face was dark with suspicion. “I had cousins from Tumunzahar who were there. We did try to talk them out of it! Gabilgathol has always traded peacefully with Elves. We wouldn’t do something like that. Or not straight away, anyway. We know that Elves sometimes have ... different ideas about contracts. ” 

Caranthir looked down at her. “Audur. Tell me swiftly. Where is the Silmaril of Doriath now?” 

“With Lúthien and Beren on Tol Galen. Beren led an attack on the army of Tumunzahar, as they were heading home...”

“With Lúthien.” Caranthir swore loudly and creatively in Valinorean Quenya, his face reddening. Fëanor was tempted to join in. Of all the creatures in Middle-earth who might have ended up in possession of the Silmaril after the death of Thingol, it had found itself in the hands of the one person who had bested Morgoth himself. 

“He attacked them at Sarn Athrad, at the great ford there, just as they were crossing the river. They were above ground and taken by surprise. None of them survived.”

“ _ None  _ of them?” Caranthir’s voice was sharp with surprise. He, like Fëanor, had seen the Dwarves fight. 

“The Shepherds of the Trees came down on the survivors. It was a massacre.”

Caranthir began to speak, then paused and clearly thought twice of whatever he had been going to say. He said instead. “And your cousins were among them. I am sorry.”

Audur said glumly “They died fighting, but I wish it had been in a better cause. The river is paved with the gold of Doriath now, we hear. They only took the Nauglamir. Nothing else.  _ I _ wouldn’t want the thing, no matter how lovely it is. I hear people saying now, that the Nauglamir is under a dragon-curse still, from the dragon that ruined Nargothrond. Dragon-gold is always unchancy.”

“Why am I only hearing about all of this now?” Caranthir demanded. 

“Because now is when you have come to Gabilgathol?” Audur said looking confused and a little alarmed.

“You couldn’t have sent a  _ message _ ? I was in Thargelion, not thirty leagues from Sarn Athrad!”

“We weren’t sure how you would feel about it. After all, Doriath is an Elf-kingdom, and the people of Tumunzahar are our brothers. I thought you might find it... difficult, to know that Tumunzahar marched to war on Doriath. Some of us wondered which side you would choose.” 

Caranthir took a deep breath and sat down again, with an obvious effort. Fëanor was impressed that he had managed it. There was a time when Caranthir would simply have stormed off, no matter what offence he might cause in the process. 

“Audur,  _ please _ , if our alliance means anything to you at all, if you hear any word about the Silmarils, you must let me know at once. We don’t want the Nauglamir. But the Silmaril...that is very important to us. An heirloom of our family. The work of my father’s heart, which will never be repeated: that means the same to us as it would to you. We are sworn to recover them. We would give anything.  _ Anything _ .”


	6. The Oath Bites Deeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doriath. Alas.

In the end, Lúthien kept her Silmaril for less than a year. A few shining months, and then Lúthien and her brief mortal husband flickered out like candle-flames and were gone forever. The Silmaril, set in the Necklace of the Dwarves, passed to her son, Dior, in Doriath. 

Maedhros waited, once they had heard that Dior had the Silmaril, while the leaves turned gold and blew away, and the snow fell white on the foothills of the Ered Luin, and melted and was gone; while the spring winds blew away and the leaves grew long upon the elm trees in the woods of Ossiriand. But nothing changed in Angband, and no word came from Doriath. 

At last he sent a messenger. Not one of their own, who might not be trusted in Menegroth, who might be at risk of being provoked, but a diplomatic choice, an ally of both Doriath and East Beleriand. He sent a Green-elf of Ossiriand, one who would be welcome to cross Doriath’s borders with a letter, no matter who that letter came from. 

He wrote the letter himself, and did not allow Curufin to edit it.

And still, two Silmarils sat in the dark on Morgoth’s crown, as far from reach as they had ever been. No answer came from Doriath. 

Amon Ereb, the lonely hill, stood tall above the waving grass of the wide, deserted plains of East Beleriand. From this, his last stronghold, Maedhros sent out word to them: the Sons of Fëanor and all that was left of their people, all of those who still had arms to bear and were strong enough to bear them. 

Amon Ereb would not have contained the great army that had marched out so proudly to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. But now the tower and the squat yellow walls were enough to provide shelter for all the forces that the Fëanorians had left to them. 

Inside those walls, the late autumn sun lit on small white flowers that grew in the grass among the trees. Fëanor’s sons sat beneath the white limbs and fading yellow leaves of birch trees, planted as gifts from the Green-elves to Caranthir, in thanks for keeping orc-armies back beyond the river Gelion, and they discussed the problem of Doriath. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just turn it over to us,” Maedhros said, bitterly. “But if Dior were minded to do that, he has had more than enough chances.” 

“He could at least have sent a reply! But to ignore us entirely, that is black insult,” Caranthir said with a frown. 

“He is Thingol’s grandson. He has not forgotten the tales he has been told of the battle at Alqualondë. He is our enemy,” Celegorm said. “He will always be our enemy. The only way we will ever take the Silmaril from him is by force.” 

Amras looked at Celegorm and Curufin as they sat together at the table opposite him, and the corner of his mouth twisted. “He is Lúthien’s son, and Beren’s. He will not forgive you. Or us.”

Amrod, next to him, shrugged. “We must deal with the world as it is,” he said. “The Silmaril alone would make him our enemy, no matter who his parents were.” 

Maglor looked around at his brothers. “It was Morgoth who slew our father and our grandfather. And he has two Silmarils, to Dior’s one.” He looked at Maedhros. “You said before that we would think of Doriath after Angband.” 

“Before,” Maedhros said. His face was closed and grim, as it usually was now. 

Celegorm said, “We can have no more hope that Dior will give up the gem than Morgoth will.” 

“There is pity. Dior can feel that. Morgoth won’t.”

“I fear that pity has failed us,” Amras said. 

Curufin said, “We cannot take the Silmarils from Angband. But I think we can take the one that is in Menegroth. If we are prepared to take up arms against Doriath.”

There was a long silence, broken only by a robin trilling in the branches above. Fëanor reached out gently to Celegorm, who seemed most inclined to his own way of thinking, and to Curufin, who was always the easiest of his sons for him to guide and influence, and pushed. 

“Then we must do that.” Celegorm said. “We have no choice, we are sworn to it. Our father would wish it done. Do we all agree?” 

Maglor looked at Maedhros, and bowed his head. Maedhros said nothing. 

“At least we stand a chance of attacking Doriath with some success. There need be no great bloodshed, surely.” Curufin said, hopefully. “A swift strike to seize the jewel, and retreat. The Sindar have no great reason to fight for it. By all accounts, they put up little resistance to the Dwarves. ” 

That was how it seemed to Fëanor, too. Doriath was weak. Doriath would fall easily. 

 

* * * * * 

 

But it was not so simple. Doriath might no longer be protected by the Girdle of Melian, and Doriath had lost its King and Queen, but Doriath had a shining new king now, and Doriath had not given up. 

The Sons of Fëanor stormed the bridge over the River Aros at midwinter, when the trees of Doriath stood stark and black beneath the pale winter sky, and they came to Menegroth at nightfall, moving so fast that no word of the attack reached the city before they arrived at the the great carven gates. The guards at the gates resisted fiercely, but were swiftly overcome. But once they had entered the underground city, the Fëanorian attack faltered. 

Menegroth was well named the Thousand Caves. Every corridor and room was bitterly contested, and unlike the Dwarves of Nogrod, the Noldor had no skill in battle underground. Passages looped and joined confusingly: lights failed, leaving the Noldor in the dark. Sindar with bows appeared behind them in places that they had thought already subdued, feigned voices called them on and led them into traps. There was no choice but to force their way onward; no way out but to kill their opponents hand to hand, in the narrow spaces deep underground. 

Their planned attack had become a bloodbath well before Celegorm cornered Dior the king in the hall where Thingol and Melian had once held court. 

There, under the trees drawn in filigree gold upon the walls and roof, Dior slew Celegorm before his servants could come to his aid, and Nimloth the Queen slew Curufin with her own hands before she died. Caranthir came running to his brothers’ aid, but he came too late, and with too little help. By the time Amrod and Amras strode into the hall, their bloody swords in hand, Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were dead. 

Fëanor was not there. Fëanor was searching the halls, workshops, treasuries and store-rooms of Menegroth. But nowhere could he find what he sought, the unsullied light that had shone before the Sun and Moon, caught by his own skill and knowledge in a cage of crystal. 

He had not seen them for so long. He had never thought that he might have to take them by force from Elves, the people of his father’s friend. It wasn’t the first time, of course, that the quest for the jewels had turned to kinslaying... although it was the first time that Fëanor and his sons had deliberately chosen to plan such an attack in advance. Best to focus on the job in hand, and not to think too much about that. 

And then at last and far too late, his search brought him to the room where three of his sons lay dead: Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin. By them lay King Dior, son of Lúthien, and Nimloth the Queen, and their blood mingled on the floor of many-coloured stone. 

Fëanor came too late to save them, too late to do anything but mourn. He had never quite managed to find out what had gone wrong with Celegorm, never managed to rekindle Curufin’s courage. Had never even comforted him in his fear: he could have done that, if nothing else...  

And now Caranthir was gone too, and that was both a bitter grief and a sore loss to their cause. Caranthir had proved one of the most able of his sons. 

Curufin’s body looked surprised, in death, as if he had not expected it. Perhaps Nienna would comfort him, in the Halls of Mandos. But no, ‘ye will find little pity’; so the Doomsman of the Valar had spoken. And there would not be many who would entreat for Curufin, anyway. Fëanor and his sons lay under the curse, and whether living or dead, their Oath still held them.

It was a long time before a kind of bloody peace came at last to Menegroth. 

When it did, the Silmaril still was nowhere to be found. Maedhros sent out all his people, looking everywhere again, and again, in increasing desperation. Amrod and Amras were searching with the thorough patience of hunters, room by room, finding hidden doors and little-used hallways. Maglor searched more randomly, striding swiftly from room to room with his eyes flicking from door to door; stopping here and there to turn over a table or open a cupboard. 

Fëanor searched too, unseen but tireless, hunting through the corpse-strewn caves, the few rooms still occupied by cringing survivors who had laid down their arms, too afraid to fight any more. 

Maedhros frowned at the improvised map of Menegroth, drawn carefully by draftsmen sent out with each search party. It was made of many smaller pages, annotated and joined neatly together to make a whole. Fëanor frowned at it too, from the other side, willing it to give up its secrets. 

“We’ve been through the whole place twice now, and still there’s no sign of it. Something else is missing, too. Dior’s children. There were three, we heard. Eluréd and Elurín, the boys - I think they would be six or seven years old now, and a little girl. What was her name?” 

“Elwing,” Maglor supplied. “I have seen rooms that must have been theirs, but no sign of the children themselves. You think the Silmaril is with them?”

“It seems likely. His children and the Silmaril, the most precious things to Dior in Menegroth and both are missing.” 

“The girlchild, Elwing, she cannot be more than three years old. Surely she cannot stay quiet for long,” Amras said. “We should listen for her. If the city falls silent then she may cry out and be heard...”

“But Lord,” said one of the soldiers who had been working on the maps. “I saw the boys. Celegorm’s men took them, after Celegorm fell, I’m sure of it. I saw them heading back towards the Gates.” 

“I saw them too,” confirmed another. “We were still fighting in this western section, after my lord Celegorm fell. ” he pointed to the map, “Varnion and Séreture went back with the children. We covered their retreat.”

“Well, where are they?” Maedhros looked around in irritation. “Were they searched? Find them!”

It was some time before Varnion and Séreture, who had been Celegorm’s cup-bearer and shield-bearer, could be found, and later still before they admitted the revenge they had taken for their lord. They had led the children into the midwinter forest and left them there alone to starve or freeze.

“They are seven years old!” Maedhros exclaimed. “What were you thinking?”

“Our lord died at their father’s hands!” Séreture told him sullenly. She looked up at him defiantly. “He would have wanted his revenge!” It was strange that she was so passionate. She had only been Celegorm’s shield-bearer since he returned from Nargothrond: all of his old servants had stayed there with Celebrimbor. She was one of the few who had not followed her lord to Nargothrond, and had awaited his return in the east. But perhaps that meant that she had something to make up for. 

Varnion was more conciliatory; “We searched them well before we left them,” he said “There is no need to worry about that, lord Maedhros. I am sure they were not carrying the Silmaril.” 

Maedhros looked at them both. “I will do much to recover the Silmaril,” he said grimly. “Whatever I must do, I will do. But this was not done to recover the Silmaril. We don’t make war on children.”

Séreture interrupted him. “We have hunted the Sindar like beasts through their caves. They have slain our lord Celegorm, who we followed from Aman and brought us to this land, and two others of your brothers. What merit is there in keeping the wolf-cubs alive, when the sire has been hunted down? They will only grow up to bite us.”

“No!” Maedhros said, emphatically, taking a step towards her. He was by far the taller, but she did not back away. ”This was mere revenge on those who had done nothing, and could do nothing to defend themselves. It is orc-work, and  _ I will not countenance it _ . You will lead me to where you left the children now.” 

“I will not.” Séreture lifted her head defiantly. “I keep my lord’s faith.”

“Die then, and join your lord,” Maedhros said, and almost carelessly, he ran her through, there by the maps, in front of his surviving brothers, and she fell to the ground and died without a word. 

Maedhros turned to Celegorm’s other servant. “Take me to Dior’s children. Do it swiftly,” he said, in a strangely calm voice. 

“Of course, my lord. But..” Varnion hesitated and Maedhros raised the tip of his bloody blade, just an inch. Varnion went on hastily “It was only the two boys that we left there. I can take you to the place. But the girl was not with them. We saw no sign of her at all.” 

Maedhros exhaled in frustration. “Maglor, would you take a party to see if you can find the girl? Talk to the survivors, find out if she had a nursemaid. See if Galadriel is still alive, too; the last I heard of her she was in Doriath. If she is here, she may be with the child. I will seek the boys.” 

Varnion led Maedhros to a shadowed dell, hidden away from the winding forest-paths, where he said the boys had been left. The sun was rising through the trees by then, catching the frost on the dark trunks and bare twigs into a cold midwinter fire: the shadows of the trees were long and blue, and their breath puffed into mist as they moved. There was no sign of the two children. 

“They will be hiding, no doubt,” Maedhros said, looking around thoughtfully at the silent trees. “They must be afraid. We will spread out and search...” 

Maedhros spent several days searching the forests of Doriath, hunting across the long wooded hillsides, pale with frost, searching the thickets where the holly still grew strong and green even at midwinter, where perhaps a frightened child might have tried to hide from winter and enemies. 

But he found nothing: the children of Dior had vanished into the winter forest. The woods of Doriath were no longer protected from anything that might cross the borders from the fearful valleys of Nan Dungortheb to the North. More than once they heard wolves howling in the frozen forest as they searched. But wolves were not the worst of it.  Children of Doriath, used to climbing trees, might survive the wolves, but the cold would be harder to escape.  

In Menegroth, Maglor found no sign of little Elwing, the last of the royal family of Doriath - nor of Galadriel - nor the Silmaril. Eventually they were forced to the conclusion that someone, unnamed, had fled from Menegroth, taking both the child, and the gem. 

* * * * * *

East Beleriand, that spring, was strangely peaceful. Morgoth’s armies rarely came far south, even now, thirty-five years after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he had not fully occupied East Beleriand. Roaming orc-bands, yes, strange things seen in the night, and the lands slowly turning darker and more dangerous. The fumes of Thangorodrim reached often far south now, and beneath their shade, orcs roamed without fear of the sun. But the expected great push south in force though the wide breach in the hills that had been called Maglor’s Gap had not yet come, and the fragile defenses of the Andram Wall still remained largely untried. 

Morgoth himself remained in Angband, imprisoned behind his own iron doors. What he might be plotting there, they could only wait to find out. 

Morgoth was a coward, Fëanor thought, as he stood on the great hill-wall of Andram, looking North towards the land of his enemy. But that weakness had not disadvantaged him as it should have done. Build up enough hoarded strength and even a craven can win a long campaign. And Morgoth, it seemed, was still hoarding his might. 

He had lost his great dragon-general, Glaurung, Father of Dragons, he had lost his Balrog captain, Gothmog of terrible rumour, slain in the fall of Gondolin. He must, surely, have other generals — and yet Morgoth seemed reluctant to send them out.

It was fortunate that he was so cautious. Having lost three of their leaders, and many others who had fallen in the attack on the Thousand Caves, the people of Fëanor were spread thin, and often they were hard-pressed to keep their ground. If Morgoth had chosen to press his advantage, they would have been swept away entirely. 

But for now, Amrod and Amras still roamed through East Beleriand, hunting for supplies, and watching for the raiding parties of the orcs. It was not an easy task. There were no great battles to be fought, no well-armed and ordered companies any more. There was little glory in their work, only an endless drudgery of small vicious struggles, villages to protect or evacuate, in a land of woods and meadows where straggling groups of refugees fled desperately south and east away from Angband, fleeing the horrors that were spreading out of Gorgoroth into what had once been Doriath and Himlad and beyond, hoping for safety by the banks of the Sirion, or across the Ered Luin.

Amrod and Amras got little thanks for their work. The Sindar turned their heads away, now, if a Noldor raiding party should pass by. They could rely on little help from those who had owed allegiance to Thingol or to Dior.

“I can’t blame them,” Amras said to his twin, one evening by the fire. “But could they not be just a little more willing to pass on information at least? I met a family today who would not speak to me, even in their own language! What does it benefit them if an orc troop goes unslain?” 

“We killed their king.” Amrod shrugged. His face was smudged and tired: it usually was, now. “I’m not sure if Gothmog decided to come and fight against Morgoth, I would be passing him information either.”

“Gothmog!” Amras laughed harshly. He looked nearly as tired as his brother. “I have no fiery whip, and nor do you! But we are short of allies. If Gothmog sent me a message saying that he’ll hold the country north of the Andram wall safe from spiders and walking spirits of the dead for a clear month of the moon, I’d be seriously tempted to entertain the offer and thank him. I’m sure Fingon would forgive us in our need!” 

“I think he would, if he could know. Maedhros wouldn’t, though.” 

“If Gothmog offers me an alliance, I’ll be careful not to mention it to him.” 

“If our brother wants to dictate our alliances, he could do more himself to help,” Amrod said, making a face.

Amras looked at him in the firelight. “Do you think that’s fair?” 

Amrod rolled his eyes. “You expect me to be fair, now! Oh, all right. He and Maglor took Himring and the Gap, while we sheltered behind them and Caranthir for years. It probably is our turn.”

“I’m concerned about Maedhros,” Amras admitted. “It’s not like him to leave us to get on with it. You’d think he’d be here, making suggestions and poking his nose in. Or at least sending letters.”

Amrod huffed out a breath. “If he needs a rest, I can understand that.”

“Yes. Let’s hope that’s all it is.” Amras drained his cup. 

Fëanor spent years in Amrod and Amras’s lands, restlessly patrolling the long hill-wall of the Andram. Sometimes he ventured north as far as the fords of the river Aros: an unsleeping guardian against the evils out of Nan Dungortheb and Taur-nu-Fuin, that now too often came straying south at night. 

But he watched, also, for any small group that might still be wandering in the wide lands South of Doriath, carrying the Silmaril. 


	7. Oath Forsworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no refuge in the works of hand and eye.

Maglor travelled widely, in the years after the ruin of Doriath, visiting the small settlements of the Noldor that still remained, scattered through Ossiriand and in the foothills of the Ered Luin.  They had no strength to hold an army back, but where Maglor went, hearts were raised, and hope came back to the hearts of the defenders.  He carried a harp again now, a small one, strung with gold and light enough to carry slung over a shoulder.

The Dwarves had ransacked the strongrooms and treasure chests of Menegroth, but the Thousand Caves had still been rich with the works of years of peace when the Sons of Fëanor came there. They had taken little from Menegroth, but Maglor had taken the harp.

Fëanor was unsure himself if Maglor thought the hope he spread was real, but it did not really matter.  The effect was the same.

But when Fëanor’s travels brought him back again to the small fortress of Amon Ereb, he found, more often than not, Maedhros and what was left of his immediate household there. Maedhros had almost stopped travelling through those parts of the Fëanorian lands that were not yet overrun. Fëanor’s heir rarely visited the remaining outposts of the Noldor, concealed in the woods and hidden hills.

Unlike his brothers, Maedhros had never been greatly interested in the crafts of the hand. He had always been more interested in the arts of the mind: languages, philosophy, the theory of aesthetics, shaping the world through word and thought.

But now, Maedhros was focussing all his considerable energy and talent on the art of hand and eye, leaving little time for anything else. Maedhros was making paintings upon the walls and ceilings of Amon Ereb. Small scenes, most of them, for all that the colours caught the eye. A garden in Tirion upon Túna, in the cool silver light of Telperion, grey with dew. Elf-children in red coats playing by the Lesser Fountain near the court of the King. A cat under a flowering cherry tree on the outskirts of Valimar. A baker making pastries by a window that looked out towards the golden glow of Laurelin.

No great adventures, no mighty heroes, weapons or battles. No new techniques either, merely a wistful delicacy of touch.

For two years, Maedhros sat at Amon Ereb and made paintings. Word of the fall of Gondolin reached them. Fëanor had thought it might stir him to some action, when young Gil-galad, Fingon’s heir, was declared king, but Maedhros seemed content to have given up the kingship of the Noldor forever.

Fëanor began to worry that Maedhros might be another of his sons who had somehow gone wrong. But there was time, for Maedhros. Sometimes it was good to devote a few years of time to the works of hand and eye. Morgoth had built up his forces by waiting, after all, and there was no way that Fëanor could see to stage another attack on him just yet.

He changed his mind when word came up at last from the Mouths of Sirion. Noldor out of Thargelion and Himlad had fled South as the lands turned darker, and some had come to the hidden Havens that Círdan had built there by the river. Some of them still held to their old allegiances, and sent news and supplies north to the Fëanorian forces.

The word came from them that Dior’s little daughter, the child Elwing, had been seen in the Havens of Sirion. She had, by all accounts, grown swiftly, taking after her human kin, and was now, the tale went, a child tall and graceful, looking older than her nine years. But there was no doubt of her identity at all, for about her neck, by all reports, she wore openly a jewel that shone with a great light familiar to all who remembered the Trees and the Light of Aman. It could only be the Silmaril.

Fëanor’s sons gathered together again, Maglor from Ossiriand across the river, Amras out of the wide woods of East Beleriand and Amrod from the hill-wall of Andram. Maedhros was there to receive them.

“I will not,” Maedhros said to his brothers, in the high chamber in Amon Ereb, looking out of the window at the green hills through a grey veil of April rain. His face was closed and dark. “Not after Doriath. We are accursed, all we do goes amiss. We are further now from regaining the Silmarils than we were when the ships burned at Losgar! No more. I will not pursue the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion. Nor will you. ”

“But the oath binds us,” Amras said, uncertain, “Be he foe or friend we swore. I do not think we can refuse it now.”

“He!” Maedhros said. “Not she! We swore, thinking that we were swearing to oppose the Black Enemy of the World, perhaps the Valar who might seek to take them by force, to resist unknown kings and princes of Middle-earth, perhaps. I never imagined that we would be sworn to attack an orphan girl, nine summers old! I refuse to do it. I forswear the Oath!”

There was a tense silence in the high room where the paintings filled the walls and ceiling. Only the hissing of the rain outside the window could be heard. Fëanor could barely hear it over the sound of the flame of his own spirit, burning furiously. How could Maedhros betray him like this? Worse than Celegorm’s lust and Curufin’s cowardice, Maedhros’s betrayal burned like a whip. Fëanor leant his will against Maedhros, and tried to subtly encourage it in a different direction. It was like trying to encourage the mountain’s root to move. Maedhros’s will was granite.

Maglor ran his fingers gently across his harp, breaking the silence, and looked across at his eldest brother.

“ Woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth...,” he sang softly, half under his breath.

Maedhros strode across the room, reached out with his remaining hand and stilled the strings. “Darkness dooms us anyway, if we cannot take the Silmarils from Morgoth,” he said.

“You’ll get no objection to that from me,” Maglor said. “My hands have enough blood on them from Doriath.”

“Will you write again to demand the Silmaril, at least? To the child Elwing? Or to Idril and this Man, Tuor, that she has married? _One_ of them must surely have some sense!” Amras said, although he did not sound as though he believed it.

“You could try young Gil-galad. He is supposed to be the High King. For what little that still means,” Amrod added from the other side of the finely-carved black oak table.

Maedhros shot Amrod an annoyed look. “I have no desire to claim the kingship. In any case, Elwing is not of the Noldor. Gil-galad has no authority to command her, even if he would do so at my request. But no, I shall not write. Why would she choose to return the Silmaril, when her father did not? I said I shall forswear the Oath, and I mean it.”

“It was our father’s Oath! And his dying wish!” Amrod’s eyebrows were raised and his voice was harsh. At least one of Fëanor’s sons seemed to still remember why they had come to Middle-earth in the first place.

“Do you think I have forgotten? Our father did not foresee this. Do you think that he would have wished his sons to become child-murderers?” Maedhros’s voice was bitter, and Fëanor hesitated, remembering kinder and gentler times.  It was true that once he would have thought it shameful to call a child an enemy.

Amrod hesitated too. “Do you demand we also forswear the oath?”

“No,” Maedhros said, taking his seat again, and lounging back idly, almost as though he had suddenly lost interest in the conversation. “I am not ordering you to break your word. But if you want my advice, I would say, wait. Taking the jewel at the Havens would cut off supplies from the South. And it brings us no closer to the two that are still in Angband.”

Amrod glared at him. Maedhros met his eyes, levelly. Then Amrod deliberately looked away, looking first at his twin, and then at Maglor. What he saw in their faces, seemed to decide him. He let out his breath explosively. “Very well. I will not forswear my Oath, but... there is no advantage in rushing to attack the Havens. And Elwing is a child, as you say. She may come to greater wisdom as she grows older.”

“It doesn’t seem to have worked that way for us,” Maedhros said, wryly. “But let us wait, and hope.”

Fëanor almost revealed himself then. He looked upon Maedhros, and remembered that he had been the only son who had stood against him, when he had commanded the ships burned at Losgar. It would be easy now to reveal his spirit to Maedhros, to force him to understand through the example of his own burning flame, why forswearing the Oath was such a terrible betrayal. Finwë had died for the Silmarils. Surely Maedhros had not forgotten his grandfather’s death?

But... Maedhros, it had turned out in the end, had been right, at Losgar. It was infuriating, but then, Fingolfin was infuriating too, and in the end he had hurt Morgoth more than anyone else had managed to do, even any of the Valar. Tulkas had merely chained Melkor: it was Fingolfin who had wounded him. There was no point ignoring the truth simply because it was irritating.

More than that, if Fëanor chose to reveal himself now, then it was clear that he would have to take control. He would have to force Maedhros’ will to submit, for he would not be guided.

There would be no going back from that. It was the kind of thing that Morgoth would do: to compel his allies into unwilling obedience by the force of his own will.

That was never something that Fëanor had wanted; the one thing he had never been prepared to do. Taking not just life, but free will. Compelling obedience by force instead of inspiring it by choice. No. He would not do it.

At the back of his mind, there was an uneasy feeling. He glared at it, until he had understood it. Then he saw that Maedhros might be right. There were three Silmarils to be saved. Two of them were in the hands of his true enemy, a worthy foe for a prince of the Noldor. One was not. An attack on an orphan girl was not something that Fëanor had ever anticipated, any more than Maedhros had.

All the same, he did not care to look at Maedhros at the moment. Forswearing the Oath itself... He was not at all happy about that. Fëanor left Amon Ereb and went North at speed, across the grassy plains of East Beleriand, dark now under heavy rainclouds that hid the sky, north towards the cold, the smell of evil and of ash.

Out through what had once been the hills of the March of Maedhros, past the gutted ruin of Himring onto the blackened fields of ash of the Anfauglith. Dark smoke from the pits of Thangorodrim hung low over the northern sky, mingling with the heavy clouds, and the will of Morgoth curled darkly through the very soil. A thin, cold rain was beginning, but it could not wash the shadow away.

On the far horizon, dark against the Western sky which was fading red now towards the unseen Sea, the three peaks of Thangorodrim stood, as strong and impregnable as they had been when Fëanor had first seen them, towering above the hidden gate of Angband, behind which Morgoth hid, governing more and more of Beleriand from within the iron prison that he had built for himself. The Enemy’s shadow reached out far beyond Thangorodrim now, swirling right across the plain, and off into the hills of Dorthonion and out towards Lothlann.

But Fëanor had thought and studied since first he had encountered the shadow of his Enemy that was so clear to his spirit-eyes. He had strengthened himself, calling on certain elements of air and water to form an armour that the shadow crawled around, but could not pass through. He took a sombre pleasure in seeing how effectively it worked. It allowed him to pass over the scorched plain, to dare the cold that struck harsh against the spirit, and draw near even to the gates. There was no point in attempting another attack on them, yet he lingered for a while, considering them and his enemy.

Was he happy there, behind his iron gates, among the hideous creatures he had bred? Was he glad to know himself hated and feared, a master of unhappy slaves and rebellious servants?

Morgoth still had a pair of Silmarils to decorate his crown. Fëanor’s Silmarils. He could see them, in his mind’s eye, shining against the darkness of the halls of Angband above the angry, miserable face that he still remembered so clearly from long ago.

The way the gems were made, holding and magnifying the light of both the Trees of Valinor at the height of their glory, must make wearing them a constant agony to one whose essence was composed of endlessly-moving shadows.

 _Why?_ Fëanor said silently, drawing as close to the gates as he dared, without imperilling his own essence. _Does it still seem worth it to you, to have these jewels that must be a living agony upon your brow? Do you still take pride in your revenge, that you killed my father and stole my greatest work? You have built a great fortress, it is true. But is it a work that has brought you delight?_

No answer came from his enemy, but as he turned away at last, a familiar voice spoke to him.

"It doesn’t delight him," it said. "There is little that delights him any more. How strange, that you should come here to ask him that."  It was the voice he remembered hearing long ago on these plains, when Fingolfin had called out Morgoth to fight, and Morgoth had come to meet him. Fëanor whipped around, looking cautiously all about him. He had no desire to be trapped again, even temporarily.

 _What do you want?_ he asked it, warily, holding his sword ready.

"Oh, nothing you haven’t already done. War in Beleriand, dissention between my master’s enemies. Fear and distrust among those who oppose him. All that sort of thing."

Fëanor looked suspiciously around. He thought he could pick out the figure that was speaking, although it was dim and hard to see. _You are a being of power. Not a Balrog. Something less wild..._

"Oh, I’m very ordered. Too ordered, I’m often told. Too neat, too obedient. So here I am, disobeying His command, to speak to you. Disobeying just a bit. Because that’s what He wants... You wouldn’t understand that, of course. You’re too much like Him."

 _I’m like Morgoth?_ Fëanor recoiled at the thought. _I most certainly am not._

"Oh, but you _are_. Give you stone, you’ll burn it, give you light, you’ll freeze the wave into a solid. Give you orders, you disobey them and bring the house down behind you and not even notice that the pillars are falling. It is so fascinating to watch. Like Morgoth in miniature, caught in Middle-earth as a crystal, like one of your own gems. Still burning, still casting long shadows."

 _That is not me._ Fëanor said with certainty. _I am a maker. I am not a bringer of chaos and death. I only want what is mine. That and my freedom._

 _‘"That and my freedom’,"_ the voice repeated thoughtfully . "And will you also pour yourself into your freedom until you are lost, and become a pale shadow of what you were? "

_I don’t know what you mean._

The other voice laughed. "I feel I’ve had this conversation before, it said. Look around you, Fëanor son of Finwë. Look well on the desert of gasping dust, on the hill of the slain. Has your work brought you delight?"

 _You are one of Aulë ’s people, those who betrayed him,_ Fëanor said with increasing certainty. _What are you trying to make me do? I will not serve any Vala, be he dark or light._

"I don’t need to make you do anything ", the voice said. "You do it all yourself."

Fëanor turned and went away, without replying. There was nothing to be achieved by this conversation. At the back of his mind, the Oath shifted uneasily as he moved South, away from Angband. It seemed to Fëanor that it gripped him now more closely than it had done in the beginning.

He could feel his connection to the two Silmarils still in Angband, echoing through him. The essence of them, hallowed long ago by Varda and set now in a crown of black iron, still called to him. For the first time since he had made them, as he moved across the dead plains, strewn with bones, he wondered if that was wholly a good thing. Yet the Oath was _his_. He would not be controlled by it. Nor would he be manipulated by any servant of Morgoth.

Fëanor looked speculatively at the Oath, as he travelled south past the ruins of Himring. He had made it too well, that was the trouble with it. It clung tight, and would not let go. He was surprised that it had been possible for Maedhros to forswear it. It was, after all, designed to prevent exactly that.

* * * * * * *

Fëanor did not see Maedhros again for twenty years of the Sun. Beleriand was growing darker. The shadow of Morgoth was spreading south, and there was much to do. The few Elves left in Thargelion, Doriath, East Beleriand and Northern Ossiriand were fleeing from the shadow, and where they had lived the shadow came, and with it, beasts of the dark places, and orcs.

The Shepherds of the Trees had long defended Ossiriand, but now the limb-lithe trees were troubled, and the Shadow lay deep upon the wooded streams. Twisted roots stretched out black and bitter to catch any living thing that might pass. The forests became increasingly places of darkness and dread. At night, the stars were often hidden, and things dead and yet not unliving moved among the trees.

Amras and Amrod patrolled tirelessly along the Andram Hills, and north even to what had once been the borders of Doriath, and the darkness fled their bright eyes and swords. Fëanor aided them: there were no spirits of the dead to rival him, and the beast and orcs feared his spirit-sword, but still it was a huge frontier to hold with a handful of people. It was fortunate Morgoth had not come that way in strength, at least not yet.

Maglor, with a small group of friends to help him, harped his way along the River Gelion, and where his song was heard, the shadows and monsters fled. But not for long.

And yet, when Fëanor came at last again to Amon Ereb, west out of the greenwood, it was midsummer, and the grass grew long and green in the sun between the River Gelion and the Andram hills, studded with white flowers like stars. The wind was blowing up from the South, with a hint of the Sea to it, and for once, most of the sky was blue. On the green road that led to the gates, it was almost possible to forget for a little while that Northern Beleriand was controlled by the Black Enemy of all the world, and that the hill of Amon Ereb stood upon a frontier, beyond which lay terror.

Though Nargothrond and Gondolin had fallen, though Himring was deserted and Hithlum forlorn, though Maglor’s Gap lay open and undefended, little Amon Ereb still stood unassailed. It was almost strange, that Morgoth had not yet sent armies here. There were no walls or fortresses any more that stood between Amon Ereb and the might of Angband, yet to look at, it could have been at peace.

But within the gates, there was no peace left any more. The decision to forswear the oath had not been gentle on Maedhros. He was painfully thin now, and his eyes shone fever-bright in a face that was pale and worn, surrounded by a great bush of unkempt red hair. He seemed constantly on the move, fidgeting, walking around aimlessly, or drumming his chewed fingers. Sometimes he looked over his shoulder at something that was not there. Those of his servants and supporters who still remained with their lord watched him with troubled eyes.

His paintings on the walls had changed. They were darker now. They showed the hills and woods of Beleriand in many seasons, but none of the skies were cloudless, and there were no stars. Some of them showed the Sea, troubled and wildly surging, capped with white foam beneath an ominous purple-grey sky. In the shadows in the corners of the paintings, if you looked for them, there were things with eyes and teeth.

Maedhros hurried his brothers up to the tower room, and closed the doors. He shook the handles too, as if he thought the door might not be closed properly, and looked around sharply, his hand on his sword hilt, as if orcs might have somehow slipped into the room when he was not looking.

“I have decided we must attack the Havens of Sirion and reclaim the Silmaril that is there,” he said, abruptly. The others looked at him in startled surprise.

“What?” Amrod said, almost as though he thought he had misheard. “But...I thought we agreed to wait? It was your idea!”

“I was... mistaken.” Maedhros looked abruptly over his shoulder, at nothing.

Maglor asked, gently, “Are you unwell?”

Maedhros gave him a quick glance with those bright, desperate eyes. “It’s following me,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Amras said, as if he knew just what that meant.

“Following you?” Maglor asked

“The Oath. The Oath is following me. It will not let me rest.” Maedhros walked swiftly to the window, and looked again behind him, a quick, reflexive action. He poured himself a cup of the white, fierce spirit that they brewed now from the roots of the white flowers of the plains, and drank most of it in a couple of swallows.

Maglor came over, quietly took the jug from him and poured cups for himself, Amrod and Amras. “It’s _following_ you?” he asked, his face concerned.

“In a form like a black serpent or.. Or a crawling dragon. Something that rustles, and scuttles... I cannot see it, most of the time. It’s behind me. But I can hear it, always there, always watching. I can’t live with it... can’t go on with it there any more. It needs the Silmarils. It will be satisfied with nothing else.”

“I have seen something like that too,” Amras admitted in a low voice. “I think it’s watching me too, sometimes. More if I think about... them. The jewels.”

“Sometimes there is...something, I catch a glimpse of it, just out of the corner of my eye,” Amrod said. “I don’t know what it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is the Oath... I feel my words coming short.” He sat down, abruptly. “ It wants no more words from me, only action. I’ll follow, if you lead us to the Havens.”

“And I,” said Amras, although he looked deeply unhappy.

Fëanor was troubled by their words. The Oath for him did sometimes seem to take on a life of its own, to hold him to a course of action that might otherwise have seemed hard, but he had never seen it as dark. For him it was light, like silver under the light of Telperion, a strength that he could lean on.

“Well, I have seen no scuttling darkness,” Maglor said, and his face was troubled. “But ...I find those words coming into my mouth again, most of all when I would leave them to rest quiet. I find them winding into my songs. The Everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth... When? When does it take us? Have our father and brothers indeed passed to the Halls of Mandos, or...” his voice trailed off. He took a swig from his cup, and made a face. “This stuff is filthy. I take it we have no wine left?”

“Nobody is growing vines any more,” Amras said, swirling the liquid in his cup, and grimacing sympathetically. “You need years of peace for vineyards, I understand.” He looked back at Maedhros. “You cannot see any other way but to attack the Havens? I agree the Silmaril there is by far the easiest of the three to take back, but... it would mean attacking our own. ”

Maedhros twitched and rubbed at the junction where the silver hand he wore joined with the arm. “After Doriath, you can still say that? And have you forgotten Alqualondë?”

Amras scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Who could forget Alqualondë? But it _was_ a misunderstanding. Doriath... You didn’t mean it to happen like that. That wasn’t the plan. It all got out of hand. It was supposed to be over swiftly, and with minimum damage.”

“All we do goes amiss. But the Oath will not let us rest. We can only go on,” Maedhros said. “I tried to let it go. I did. But it will not let go of me.”

Maglor looked uncomfortable. “You really want an attack on the Havens... Are you _sure_ , Maedhros? The place is full of refugees, or so I hear from those who of our people who have been there.  Nahtanion took his wife there, after she was injured, you remember...  It’s not a real city, it’s a sprawling camp. Escaped thralls, the walking wounded of Nargothrond and Gondolin, children of the Sindar, the Noldor and of the Aftercomers. Old men and women, too, very likely. Not to mention those of our own followers who were sent south as children, or because they were otherwise unable to fight... We have no way of knowing where Elwing might be. It would be chaos. Like Doriath over again, but worse. And... we have been protecting their north-east flank. They will have no idea we would turn upon them.”

“It will be chaos,” Maedhros said, and he put his silver hand down heavily on the table. It echoed dully under the impact, like a distant drum. “It will be chaos, and it will bring terror and death to our own people, who have trusted us. But that is what we are sworn to, and... I cannot fight it any more. I cannot. The Oath is hungry to be fulfilled. This is our last chance.”

“At least write to them first,” Amras argued. “Elwing is old enough now to make her own decisions, and she has good advisors. Finarfin’s daughter Galadriel is there with them: she is no fool. Eärendil is said to be wise, for all his youth. They may yet choose to give up the gem and make peace.”

“I doubt it,” Maedhros said. He sounded hopeless, but his eyes were still flicking around the room. “But very well. I will write to her, while we gather our people and prepare for battle. The Havens may be undefended, but Círdan will come to their aid from Balar when he hears what we have done, and Gil-galad still has forces in Nan-tathren of the willows. We will have to come at them out of Taur-im-Duinath, and build boats to make the crossing of the Sirion.” He went to a chest and began pulling out maps.

“But you will write first?” Maglor asked.

Maedhros glanced sharply over his shoulder, and winced, rubbing at his neck. “Yes, yes of course. But if they refuse...”

“If they refuse, I’ll follow you,” Maglor admitted, hunching miserably over his cup.

The letter that came back from young Elwing and her new husband Eärendil was short and firm. The Silmaril was a blessing upon their new house of mingled Men and Eldar, and they would not surrender it.

“A blessing, she calls it!” Maedhros said, despairing, when he read the letter, and went back to studying maps.


	8. The Havens and the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sons of Fëanor fall on the Havens of Sirion. Later, far out of reach, they see the Silmaril again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [See Map Larger](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bunn/5531459/652717/652717_original.jpg)

The Havens was more than just a camp by now. The mingled escapees of Doriath, Gondolin, Brethil and Nargothrond, and not a few from East Beleriand, had brought with them many skills and enormous ingenuity, if very little else. 

On the shores of the great river Sirion, on the small islands and low wooded hills dotted between the many shining mouths of the river, joined together by a haphazard network of boats, small light bridges and causeways, they had woven a town from the branches of the willows and the great tall concealing banks of reeds that stretched for miles upstream: a busy, muddy town that might not be neatly planned, and certainly was not rich, but was not without grace, beauty and joy. 

But it was built as a hiding-place and a harbour, not as a fortress. The small groups of houses, the many causeways and bridges that strung the Havens together into a whole would have made the place hard to defend, even if it had been walled and held by a force armed and armoured that was ready for attack. But it was not. 

The sons of Fëanor had been living every day at war for many long years. They had lost almost everything, except what was needed to keep them fighting: weapons, armour, food and water. They were still well-armed, and after all those years of war, those who remained and still stood with Fëanor’s sons were those who were so used to battle that it was hard to remember that once they had had another kind of life.

They came upon the Havens in light boats across the water out of the south, one quiet golden morning late in the year when the Sirion lay calm and glimmering at the turn of the tide under the rising sun. 

And they ran through the small water-side buildings like a flame through dry straw, burning and destroying as they had been commanded to do.

Fëanor stood upon the quayside and watched. He knew he should be searching for the Silmaril, should be hunting through the reed houses like a dog after rats. The Oath called him on, but he could not make himself want to follow it. 

This was not the battle that he had come to Middle-earth to fight. The sight of battle-hardened warriors hunting fishermen and weavers through the burning ruins of reed-woven cots and flets woven into willow-branches sickened him. It was not like Alqualondë, not at all, for all that this was also a battle fought beside the sea. 

In Alqualondë, sharp words had turned to blows almost instantly on both sides, and both sides had striven with pride, with fury, had been fierce and furious, new to battle and full of passion. He saw it clear in the mind’s eye, although the memory gave him no joy. But there was no fury left in these people, and seeing them run, and plead and die beneath the swords of his own people, Fëanor’s flame too was quenched. 

Even before he came to the the muddy island where Celebrimbor held a slender bridge of creaking willow against the invading Noldor, Fëanor had had enough. He looked at his grandson, sword in hand, fighting his own people to defend a handful of terrified Green-Elves and Aftercomers with children at their skirts. The tears were running down Celebrimbor’s face as he fought. 

And Fëanor thought;  _ if Celebrimbor had the Silmaril, so be it. He is of my line. Let him keep it.  _ The Oath pulled at him. It hurt.

Fëanor reached out and pushed the Noldor on, calling them after Maedhros, who had pressed on into the centre of the settlement, searching for Eärendil, Lord of the Havens, for Elwing his wife, and most of all, for the Silmaril. They did not need much encouragement to leave Celebrimbor standing there, on the far side of the water looking at the ruins of the fallen bridge, his light and delicately crafted sword and shield smeared with mud from the riverbank. He was not what they were looking for. 

Celebrimbor was not the only one who turned his sword on his own House that day. Fëanor saw others who, overcome with horror at the sights around them, and given a fatal moment to think, chose to throw in their lot with the Havens. Maglor slew two of his own that turned on him as they ran through the narrow paths, swiftly, efficiently, killing with a remote expression on his face, as if he were thinking about something else. Among the defenders of the Havens were those who wore the star of Fëanor: Celebrimbor’s people, who had been Celegorm and Curufin’s and had followed Celebrimbor in Nargothrond. 

While Fëanor stood staring in shock at his grandson with his sword raised again his own, Amrod, running swiftly through the burning wooden buildings as the fires started as a diversion grew and spread, was shot from on high. Egalmoth the archer had been leader of the the House of the Heavenly Arch of Gondolin before its fall. His aim was true and his bow mighty. Amrod fell with an arrow in his eye, and he did not rise again. 

It was only much later, when they had learned that Eärendil of the Havens was far away, exploring the coast in his ship, after they had seen the High King’s sails racing out of the West from Balar Isle, bringing help too late, and retreated swiftly across the river, darting from isle to isle in the red sunset light into the dim shadows of the of the great forest Taur-im-Duinath, that Fëanor heard that Amras, too, was dead.

Survivors of Gondolin had come to Egalmoth’s aid. Their swords were deadly. Amras had the greater skill, but he was surrounded by a ring of steel, and at last the Gondolodrim had the victory. Maglor came up to their aid too late to do anything but take revenge. 

So Amras too died by the shores of the Sea, and with him, here and there along the foreshore, slain by Noldor out of Gondolin who they had once called friends, slain by Men out of Brethil, and most savagely of all, by those who had escaped the Thousand Caves, there died many of the last remaining supporters of the House of Fëanor, and their bodies fell into the Sea or were taken by the growing flames and were lost. 

And after it all, when the time for the grim accounting came, when Fëanor’s last two sons met again, bloodstained and smoke-blackened under the dark branches, the Silmaril and its bearer were both gone. 

Elwing had flung herself into the Sea at last, rather than surrender. All that she left behind in the ruined ashes of the Havens were her twin half-elven children, Elrond and Elros. 

Maedhros had found them first, playing unafraid beside one of the many shallow streams that flowed into the great river, not far from the quays. Elwing and her people had rushed to face Maglor, coming up from the South, and then found flames breaking through a line of thatched barns had cut them off. Maedhros had found a way through the maze of store-rooms to come up behind her. 

Maedhros had offered Elwing her children in exchange for the Silmaril. 

She did not believe his shouted offer to let them go. 

As Fëanor raced unseen towards her and the Silmaril, Elwing looked towards her distant children one last time, despairing, as one who looks on the faces of those already dead. She dropped her sword, and then, before anyone could intervene, she leaped, out from the low black spur of rock past which the river and the tide whirled out with lethal muddy speed, the Silmaril still around her neck. 

The force of the river and the tidal current took her, and before Maedhros could do more than step forward and shout helplessly, her pale figure was turned by the speeding water and hurled with terrible swiftness out to sea. 

They had taken the last chance, and it had slipped through their hands like all the rest. 

 

* * * * * *

  
  


The last remnants of the House of Fëanor did not return to Amon Ereb. There were not enough of them now to hold even that small stronghold. No more supplies would come there from those who had moved from Fëanorian lands to the Havens, to aid the last defenders of the Andram wall. The grasslands and the heather hills were not an easy place for the survivors, no more than a couple of hundred people, to live off the land, not when they must be constantly alert for attack. 

Instead they wandered the Forest Between Rivers, hiding in the woods, far from the Isle of Balar where the High King still lived, with what was left of elvendom in Beleriand. 

And on a day of grey skies when the trunks of the trees shone dark with rain, Maedhros said to his brother, flinching as if from a blow; “In Amon Ereb, the Oath knows where to find me. It hunted me, until I ran from it and did its bidding in the Havens. I do not wish to return. I will hide here among the trees. Perhaps it will forget me, if I cannot forget it.” 

Fëanor had not revealed his spirit to the wandering Noldor, even now, but sometimes, now, in the shadow of the great forest, he thought that he had caught Maedhros looking at him, in furtive, unhappy glances. 

Fëanor had spent a long time unseen among the Eldar. He knew how they behaved, how they looked when there was nothing to see. Maedhros did not look like that, not any more. He was Fëanor’s eldest son. There was still a living connection between them, even as there was between Fëanor and the Silmarils. If anyone should have been able to see Fëanor’s unbodied spirit without his making a conscious effort to reveal himself, then it should have been Maedhros. 

And yet, he did not speak to his father or make any clear sign, only glanced and looked away, wincing. After a while, Fëanor decided that Maedhros, beset by the shadow of Morgoth which lay all around them now, and sinking into despair, had become unable to tell his father from the Oath that he saw following him. It was a thought that tore at his heart. 

 

* * * * * *

 

The half-Elven children had been carried off in the confusion of the retreat. Everyone there had fought at Menegroth. Everyone there remembered Dior’s children, abandoned in the darkening woods at midwinter. There was no safety for them in the burning maze of the Havens, or in the land to which they had fled, east across the river from the quays of Sirion, which now had no protection at all from the orcs and wargs coming from the North. By necessity, Elros and Elrond were bundled along unwilling with the swiftly retreating Noldor. 

Now, in the woods, nobody knew what to do with them. But everyone remembered what Maedhros had said about Dior’s children, lost to die in frozen ruined Doriath. Orc-work, their lord had called it. For all that almost every one of them was an Elf-killer many times over, there was not one who wished to think of himself as deliberately cruel.

And so all of them tried, as best they could, to be very kind to the small, terrified boys, in the manner of people who have had little contact with children for a very long time, and could not quite remember how they used to speak to them, so very long ago, when they had lived in peace with children of their own. 

It seemed a time that was very far away to Fëanor, too, as he watched Maglor, tall and harsh in battle-scarred leather over mail, try to coax Eärendil’s stolen children to eat a little food and drink some water. 

He had to think hard to walk back in memory and see once again Maedhros and Maglor at that age: small princes, clad in silks and gold, provided with everything they could possibly want or need, with nothing but the small fears and woes of family life to dread. 

He wondered what Nerdanel his wife would have done, if she had stood where Elwing had stood, and known her children in the hands of her enemy. Nerdanel, he thought proudly, would not have leaped to her death. Nerdanel would have fought. 

But a small uncomfortable voice from the back of his mind, said to him that Nerdanel would have fought as Elwing’s mother Nimloth had fought, and that she would have died as Nimloth had died; not so much because anyone wanted her dead, as because in war, even a queen can die. 

Elwing might have been a child herself in years, but she had lived her life at war. Nerdanel had never known war. He found himself very glad of that. He remembered that he had been so angry, when she had told him that she would not come with him, and begged him to leave Amrod and Amras behind. But now he was only thankful that Nerdanel at least was safe. Surely she was safe. He could not know, but surely Tirion still stood, and she dwelt there still in peace.

If his own twin boys had stayed with her, they would not have died at the Havens. They would not have been driven there to kill and to die. If Curufin had stayed with them, then he too would be safe: would never have had to learn fear so terrible that he could set it into others minds and leave them enfeebled, unable to fight. 

If Curufin had stayed, then Celebrimbor would not have stood there weeping with his sword raised against his grandfather’s people...

Of course, it had been impossible for any of his sons to stay in Tirion. They had sworn the Oath by then. They had sworn it in anger, in grief and desire for revenge for Fëanor’s murdered father. Never, as he exchanged angry words with Nerdanel, had it occurred to Fëanor that in his grief for his father’s death, he had sold his own life, and the lives of every one of his sons. But now, thinking of Amrod and Amras, of Elwing’s despairing face, and looking at Earendil’s tearstained children, he could see things with a terrible clarity. 

It was hard to imagine how it might have been for Fëanor’s seven sons, if they had been forced to live in a rough shelter in the woods, without books or tools or tutors, eating only what could be found in the forest, learning only what could be taught there, while all around them, the darkness grew.

Morgoth’s creatures were moving into Taur-im-Duinath from the North: crows and wolves at first, and soon orcs followed them. Darker things, too: evil shadows of the dead had been seen even in the southern woods soon after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and now they had moved far south. Such things were hard to hold to any frontier, although they fled when they felt the strength of Fëanor’s spirit, or heard the words of Maedhros or the harp of Maglor. 

They were brave, Earendil’s children, but not as foolish as their age might suggest. Even the Havens had not been safe, even when the Sons of Fëanor had held the northern border and the power in the river Sirion held against the dark. They had been taught wariness all their lives.

Elros and Elrond gave up trying to run away, and no longer had to be watched constantly, which was a relief to everyone. But still they were wary. A month is a long time for a child of six, whether Elf or Man — and yet it was months before they would speak freely or could sleep easily in their bed of deerskin over pine needles. 

 

* * * * * *

 

"I want to go home," Elros said, indistinctly, for at least the tenth time that evening. Elrond was crying silently to himself, pale and exhausted, arms wrapped around his knees. 

"Sorry, Elros. No," Maglor told them yet again, glancing back at them briefly. There was no way back to the Havens far away. They were blackened and deserted now, and the survivors all gone to the distant Isle of Balar.

Maglor had his sword in his hand, and was looking around cautiously at the trees. Two of their people were making a fire. Most of the rest had formed a loose ring around them and the children, looking outwards. The dim daylight of the woods was fading into a night without stars. 

Suddenly a flurry of movement in the darkened trees, something hideous and black rushing at the Noldor from a treetop. A giant spider, another. Maedhros stepped forward and despatched it swiftly, almost with one movement. The fire was flaming up, bright against the darkness. Elrond shuffled a little closer to the light. Elros’s wide grey eyes were fixed on the dark mass of the fallen spider. 

“I thought we’d cleared them all out of this section,” Maedhros said in disgust. “We’d best set a double guard again tonight. Varyar, Roquenon, Panonis, more fires, please. Four in a square, so we have room to move the horses between them as well. 

Maglor glanced back at Elrond and Elros, and waved two of his people to his side, to watch the trees while he pushed the ugly bulk of the dead spider back into cover, away from the firelight. 

He came back to the children and squatted to be nearer their level. “You will have to wait a little till the venison is cooked,” he told them in Sindarin. “But Panonis has found some cobnuts for you. Do you know how to crack them?”

They did not speak, but Elrond nodded warily. “All right. Here’s the bag. And here’s a water-bottle. We’ll go to the stream tomorrow, so we can wash, but I think we’ll have to skip that tonight.” Maglor put the bag of nuts on the ground next to the water bottle where they could reach it without coming too close. Elros put out a dirty hand and picked it up. 

“Do you want to help build a shelter, for tonight? I don’t think it will rain, but it might be warmer.”

“I want to go home,” Elros said, again, but he was pulling out a nut from the bag. Elrond took one too, and cracked it with his back teeth, then peeled the green shell away from the soft white core.

Maglor gave them a slight rueful smile. “We’d all like to go home,” he said. “But we can’t. Will you help me build a shelter? Or would you rather sleep next to the fire tonight and have an extra blanket?” 

Elros looked over to the shadows that the spider had come from. Elrond looked up at Maglor with a wariness in his eyes that was hard to see in one so young. “By the fire,” he decided. 

“All right then. Eärrindë will make up a bed for you shortly, you can help her if you like. I’m going out with Maedhros to check there are no other dangers around the camp now. Then when we’re quite sure it’s safe, we’ll have some venison. Will you promise not to go away from the fire until we get back? It is safe by the fire.” Elrond did not look at him, but Elros nodded. 

Maglor played the harp for a while, later, though neither Elros nor Elrond would choose a song that night, when he asked them. That trust took a while longer to win, but it came in time. 

After a while, they found it easier to speak to the others too, whose eyes and swords shone bright and warded off the darkness. For all that they were killers, they were better than the alternative. 

 

* * * * * *

 

When Elrond and Elros were ten years old, a new star rose out of the West. It was clearly, unmistakably a Silmaril. 

“Let us be glad; for its glory is now seen by many and is yet secure from all evil,” Maglor said, as they stood on a nameless hill deep in the woods, whose grassy crest rose above the trees giving a view west into a clear sky of velvet blue. They came up here sometimes, when the endless trees of the Forest Between Rivers became too much to bear, to feel the wind and look at the stars. Even now, the vapours from Thangorodrim rarely hid the sky here in the South for long. 

“Is that a new song?” Maedhros asked. “Secure from evil like us, you mean. At least this means the Silmarils in Angband are now the easy ones.” 

Maglor said, “It cannot be one of the two in Angband. It must be the jewel that...” 

“The one that our mother took with her when she leapt into the sea,” Elros said quietly. Maedhros ignored him, staring out at the Silmaril that hung so far out of reach across the huge reaches of the forest, fading far away into the silver distant line of the Sea. But Maglor turned and looked Elros in the eye. 

“We can only hope,” he said. “I thought... from what I could see, your mother was lost in the waves. But now, I am not so sure. I can see no way that the Silmaril could shine there save through the art of the Valar. If it has come into their hands, then someone has taken it to them. And it is said that your father’s house has the favour of Ulmo, Lord of Waters.”

When the world was as it should be, there would be, of course, a connection between father, mother and their children that would tell the boys if their parents lived. Elwing and Eärendil surely were not both dead. And yet the children could feel nothing of them. Fëanor hoped this was some aspect of their heritage that stemmed from Men: the idea that elf-children could lose that link with their living parents through mere separation in early youth cut him to the core. He could see it troubled his sons too, though they did not speak of it. 

“There is no word from our father?” Elrond asked, cautiously, his eyes flickering to Maedhros’ thin tired face. All of them were a little cautious around Maedhros now, and the boys had picked it up from the rest. 

“Our watchers on the coast have not seen his ship,” Maglor told him. “If they do, if we hear that he has come back to harbour at Balar, then we will tell you, I promise, and somehow find a way to send a message. I had hoped we would hear something of him before now.” 

He gave them a helpless, guilty look. “You are both old enough now that he should have had the chance to hold the name-making for you. In fact, you are old enough now, and skilled enough in language that you should be holding your name-choosing! But you can’t choose names without being given a father-name. It’s all wrong.” He shook his head frowning. 

“Hardly the only thing that is all wrong,” Maedhros said bleakly. 

“I like my name,” Elros said firmly. “My mother gave it to me. I shall keep it.” 

“Me too,” Elrond agreed loyally. 

“Many people choose their mother-name. I did.” Maglor said. “Maedhros, too, when he was young. There’s nothing wrong about that. But still, you should have had the choice, and your father to give it to you. And the celebration, and the gifts.”

“We were given a star,” Elrond said, looking up at it. “We’ll have to make do with that. Make us a song for the new star, Maglor. That can be your gift.”

Fëanor looked up at his work, shining high above the Sea, and his heart called out to it, in greeting, and in longing. There had been a time when it would have made him angry to see it hanging there, out of reach, and still in the back of his mind the Oath curled and hissed. But he refused to listen. It was his Oath, and would serve him only as he chose.

Maglor was right. The Silmaril was safe far beyond the reach of his Enemy and that was enough. 


	9. Dawn of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hosts of Valinor arrive in Middle-earth. Maedhros raises a river, and Elrond is impressed.

For three more years after the rising of the Star they lived in the forest, hunting deer, and often, too, hunting worse things that roamed now freely through Beleriand, even into the southern forests. Fëanor was able to keep away some of them; the great spiders that strayed from Gorgoroth and the were-wolves feared him and his spirit-blade. But still the woods grew darker, and on East Beleriand the hand of Morgoth lay heavily.  

They moved west again within the shadow of the woods, closer to the sea-cliffs, where the sea winds held back the fumes out of the north that increasingly hid the sky, and where seabirds still nested along the jagged cliffs. 

Elros and Elrond had grown tall enough to shoot a small bow, to ride, and to fight with the short-sword. They had learned to compose verse in several of the more popular modes, and to speak the Quenya of the House of Fëanor almost as fluently as they spoke their mother-tongue, Sindarin, and the Mannish Taliska that was the common language of the Havens.   

They had just returned to the camp clearing from a hunt with Maglor and some of his people, flushed with triumph, with a dead deer slung over the back of a horse and the tall shaggy hunting-dogs running at heel, when they heard it, echoing from a great distance through the trees. Trumpets. Unmistakeable, proud, joyful, and completely unexpected. 

“What is that?” Elrond said, whirling towards the sound, nervous and excited at once.

It was a note that Fëanor knew, and yet for a moment he could not remember where he had heard it before. 

Maedhros got to his feet slowly. The remaining Noldor in the small group were looking at each other in amazement and hope. 

“That, unless I have gone mad,” said Maedhros, “is the sound of the trumpets of Eönwë, Herald of the the Valar.”

“Yes!” Maglor said, and his eyes were bright, but his voice carried a note of fear. “ I would know that note anywhere. Those are the trumpets of Eönwë. And there is only one reason that the trumpets of Eönwë would be heard in Middle-earth... It must be...” he met Maedhros’s eyes, and Maglor’s face was full of a wild hope again. 

“You think that the Valar are going to war?” Maedhros asked him.

“Let us find out!”

He took the mare’s halter from Elros and hurried from the clearing, west, towards the coast. The others followed him eagerly. 

Seen from the edge of the forest, looking out west over the cliffs that fell down to the bright water, blue as the sky, the Bay of Balar was an amazing sight. Far away, beyond the cliffs that fell down sharply towards black teeth of rock, all around the small shadow that was the distant island of Balar, the sea was filled with uncountable tall white sails, more great white swan-headed ships than Fëanor had ever seen. It seemed that the Teleri had been busy for the past five hundred years, building new and larger replacements for the ships that Fëanor had taken from them. 

Most of the ships were anchored, awaiting their turn, but those that were moving were heading in an endless stream towards the distant quays and landing-places of the deserted Havens. Far away, beyond the furthest of the white ships, Fëanor, straining to see, could just make out a great dark shape in the water. It could have been, at that distance, an island, except that there had never been an island there, in the midst of Belegaer, the Open Sea. But Fëanor knew without seeing what it was. It was Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who came with the Host of the Valar to war. 

Elros stepped forward quickly north along the cliff, looking eagerly towards the Havens, but Maedhros caught him by the shoulder. 

“No,” he said. 

“But our father could be there!” 

“There is no sign of his banner. None of those ships is Vingilot. Look at them, Elros. They are ships of Valinor, all of them, not the ships of Middle-earth. Not one is flying your father’s colours,” Maedhros told him. “We cannot go to the Havens, and I will not let you go alone. The ships cannot come here, under the cliffs. The river is more than fifty miles away, and after that you must pass the reed-beds and build a boat to take you across the full width of the Great River to the quays. You know what is wandering that land now. The Enemy has the River watched. You would never reach them.”

“We’ll take the risk,” Elros said, “We have our knives. This is a battle we must be in. Elrond, you are with me?” 

“Elros, you are thirteen years old!” Maglor said to him. 

“We are old enough to fight,” Elros said, his head going up proudly. “Did you not say that one of the Sons of Bór who fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was nearly our age? Yet he was old enough.”

“He was fifteen, and he was a Man of the line of Bór! They grow more swiftly than we do. You are Elven-kin..”

“Half-Elven,” Elros interrupted.

“All the same, you are nothing like so tall and strong as poor Borthand was,” Maedhros said sharply. “You are too young. _ He _ was too young! I cannot risk what few people are left to me, taking you to the Havens.”

“Because you are rebels against the Valar,” Elrond said, looking troubled. “You think that all these people with the white sails would attack you?”

“I do not know, “ Maedhros said uncomfortably. 

“Only, I can see that some of their ships are flying the colours of the house of Finarfin, aren’t they? Isn’t he your uncle?”

“If you, cousin Elrond, are not fully aware that it is much more complicated than that by now, then I don’t know what to say to you,” Maglor told him, and Elrond gave him an awkward half-smile. 

Maedhros said, with a tense, strained look on his face. “At the moment, they are disembarking troops onto a hostile and unknown shore, for the first time in their lives. They have never fought in Middle-earth. Most of them have never fought in earnest at all. They will be nervous. They will be deadly. I remember too well what that was like. This is not the time to approach them to explain who you are. So far as they know, everyone who is left in Beleriand is a servant of the Enemy.”

“King Gil-galad would know us,” Elros said obstinately. “Or lord Círdan, or the lady Galadriel. Surely they would remember us...” and he looked at Elrond.

“I think they would too,” Elrond said, staunchly. 

“There is no question that they will remember you,” Maglor said firmly and reassuringly. “But from the banners, the High King and his friends are still on Balar Isle, not at the Havens. Very likely everyone at the Havens has come straight from Valinor, and has no idea who anyone is here. They might not even recognise me or Maedhros,” he said, looking ruefully down at his own worn coat. “I must admit that neither of you look like princes of the line of Doriath and Gondolin. I’m not sure you even look like sons of the House of Hador! More like Beren coming out of the the wilderness, you look, the pair of you. We should make you something better, before we arrange for you to see your kin...” 

“Perhaps if we wait a little, allow them to come ashore and set up their camp first,” Elrond said to his brother, a little uncertainly. 

“I do not mean to wait here for them to try the crossings of the Sirion,” Maedhros said at once. Maglor raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Fëanor too turned to him in surprise, wondering what he was up to. He had thought Maedhros a spent force, after the nightmare of the Havens. 

Maedhros beckoned the other Noldor closer, and raised his voice a little, so that everyone could hear him, there on the green clifftop in the sunlight, where the sea glittered brightly far below, and far away the white ships moved against the blue. 

“Morgoth will hope to use us to distract the Valar, if he can. He will try to force us to create doubt, to weaken the alliance between the Noldor of Valinor, the Vanyar and those who still live on Balar. He will try to use our Oath to drive us against the Star in the West.” Maedhros said, and his voice was level and calm, but his face was bitter. 

“No more. No more of it! I will not wait here to be forged into his weapon. I will not ask you to follow me against your own people ever again. ” There was a little relieved murmuring at that.

“We will fight our true Enemy. The armies of Valinor, no matter how late they have arrived, bring us new hope. We will go north and east, into the mountains, to our friends of Belegost. The Eldar of Valinor know nothing of Dwarves, but we do. We know the East, and we know the paths across Lothlann to Thangorodrim better than anyone else. From the Ered Luin, we can plan our own flank attack, without any risk of being tricked into an engagement with the Valar. Prepare yourselves. It will be a long march, and a dangerous one, but I know you will all endure it, all of you who are left of our House, you who have proved loyal above all. ” 

Fëanor was impressed. It was a plan that took them away from the Valar and their Silmaril, but closer to Angband. Risky, but a clever way to bend the Oath back towards working for them. 

Maedhros turned again to Elros and Elrond, speaking more quietly, only to them. “Come with us,” he said. “Come to Belegost and meet with the Dwarves, in their houses of stone. We will make you swords, and teach you to use them. This war will not be over swiftly, I promise you. There are few in Middle-earth who know more of fighting Morgoth than we do. You will learn much, and we can keep you safe, at least for a while.”

“Swords?” Elros asked, with his hand on the hilt of his knife and a hopeful light in his eye. “

“You shall have swords made by the smiths of the House of Fëanor. You will not find such swords elsewhere in Middle-earth,” Maedhros said, “As soon as you are tall enough to wield them. I know that Maglor will not leave you here, in this forest under the hand of Morgoth, and I am ... reluctant to have you carried off by force. I offer you a place in our company, and a just reward for your time.” 

Elros looked across at his brother, suddenly uncertain “What do you think?” 

“It sounds a better idea than being spitted by an Orc, or even worse, by one of our own kin,” Elrond said. “And also it seems to me we have little choice.”

“I think so too,” Elros agreed, although he did not look entirely happy about it. 

Then Elrond frowned and turned back to Maedhros. “But... do you mean that you are asking us to swear to your service? Because I’m not sure...”

“No,” Maedhros and Maglor said together, so quickly that Maglor smiled at it, and even Maedhros narrowed his eyes a fraction in amusement when he caught Maglor’s eye. 

“Your fealty is not something you should offer anyone, not without the advice of your father,” Maglor told them. 

“Let us be clear,” Maedhros said, speaking now in the formal mode in Quenya, the language of his house. He spoke a little slowly, to be sure they would understand. “You say you are almost grown: therefore, I speak to you as men. There may be times when we ask your obedience in the next while, to assure your safety and ours. I expect you to obey, and I will offer you what protection I still can. But I will not be your lord. You have no obligation to us at all. You are our hostages, no more.” 

Elrond looked away in distress at that, and Elros took half a step towards his brother, looking worried. 

Maglor said quickly; “It is only that there must be no doubt cast on your standing with the Valar, or with the High King, and most of all, with your own people.”

Elrond exchanged a long look with his brother, and then nodded. He began to reply in Quenya, then checked, and spoke instead in his mother-language, the Sindarin of Doriath. “Very well. We will agree to go with you, and obey your commands. At least for a while. Only... if you hear anything of our father...”

“What we hear, you will hear,” Maglor confirmed. Elrond gave him a small smile. 

“Very well, it is agreed.” Maedhros said, his face serious. He looked so old now, Fëanor thought, watching, as if he had not smiled for centuries. He hoped that Elrond and Elros would never wear that haunted expression. Nobody’s son should look like that. 

“You will come with us, for now. If you wish to go to war against the Enemy, we will help you, as soon as you are old enough. But do not ask me to let a boy of thirteen go out with a knife to war against Morgoth! I will not pretend to you that we have not done terrible things, Maglor and I. But even we would prefer not to have your deaths on our hands. Come. Get your things. We must be on our way before nightfall.”

“It may be that we will find other allies from beyond the mountains,” Maglor told Elros and Elrond as they walked back to the camp together. “The kinsfolk of Bór the faithful, those who survived the great battle, they settled east of the Mountains, near Belegost. I do not know if they are still there, but they may be. You might like to meet them.”

“I’d rather meet the kinsfolk of Ulfang,” Elros told him. “With my new sword, I’ll meet them!” 

“Very likely you will. But you’ll need to be a bit taller first.”

......

 

Years ago there had been many bridges across the wide silver river Gelion, for the convenience of travellers passing from Beleriand east into Ossiriand or to the old home of Beren and Lúthien at Tol Galen. But none of the bridges were still standing. Nothing good came out of Beleriand any more. 

That left the most southerly crossing of the Gelion as the ford of Sarn Athrad, almost fifty leagues North of the Taur-im-Duinath, across land that was for the most part open grassland where the servants of Morgoth roamed now freely. Any troop of orcs would fear the Sons of Fëanor, even now, but numbers would tell, and there they were at a disadvantage. They could not afford to attract attention. 

They crept warily along the Western river bank, vital supplies loaded on the few remaining horses, with a handful of scouts ranging ahead to watch for trouble. Fëanor went ahead of them, watching for trouble, wary of Balrogs. But the land was strangely quiet. There were signs that there had been orc-armies encamped by the Gelion not long ago: trees hacked and marked with evil runes, the ground scarred and burned. 

Men, too had been there, leaving here and there an old coat or a broken pot, and tearing up the soft ground by the river into mud with their cattle. Once or twice they saw them at a distance, tall and strong, carrying banners like those that had been Uldor’s, as well as the black mace of Morgoth’s allies. Fëanor was sorely tempted to stride among them unseen, dealing death, but it would have served no purpose but to attract attention, and he restrained himself. Three times they came upon roaming orcs, travelling in groups by night or under the cover of the black, burned-looking clouds that often covered the Northern sky. The Elves folded around them, moving swiftly and silently, and slew them almost before the orcs were aware they were surrounded. None escaped to give the alarm. 

But as they moved north, quietly stealing from hill to copse to reed-bed, moving in the grey morning and the half-shades of evening, and taking advantage of the autumn river-mists, it seemed that Morgoth’s supporters were fewer than they had expected, indeed, were withdrawing to the north and to the west. 

The news of the arrival of the host of Valinor had reached the Enemy, too. Morgoth the craven was pulling back armies into the North, to concentrate them where they could best protect him, and sending hosts of orcs and his new-come Eastern men west to war. It left the land along the River Gelion quiet and empty.

They came into sight of Amon Ereb on its hilltop, and found it in ruins, unrecognisable now as the last stronghold of the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros had feared that it might be held against them, that Morgoth would have chosen to garrison the place as a defence of the Andram, as he himself had done. But it seemed that Morgoth’s generals had chosen destruction over defense. 

At last they came to the great wide bowl of land in which the fords of Sarn Athrad lay. The sun was rising in the east behind the mountains, washing the land to the west with a golden light that shone beneath the lid of dark cloud, and hid its scars, but the river itself still lay glinting dark in the long blue shadow of the mountains. 

Maedhros surveyed the wide valley cautiously before they approached, but there was no sign of any enemy. But to cross the river they would have to descend into a wide space where there was no cover, and nothing defensible at all, on the broad paved dwarf-road that had once led from the mountains to Doriath. 

The river was wide here, opening out into a great pool before it met the long shallow causeway. There were small islets set here and there in the stream, designed for those who wished to rest during the long crossing of the ford. The last time Fëanor had passed this way, the islets had been shaded with white birch trees and set with stone benches. The trees had been felled and now lay piled grey and sad along the shore where the road led into the water. 

“Mount the boys on two of the horses,” Maedhros ordered. “Elros can take the grey mare, and Elrond shall have my horse, those two are swiftest. Any stores we cannot carry will have to be left here. And everyone else, weapons ready. Be alert. If there is an attack, this is where it will come.”

“This is one of those times when we said you must obey,” Maglor told Elros and Elrond, checking that they were both mounted securely. “If enemies come up behind us as we cross the ford, get across the river as fast as you can, and follow the old road east. We will catch you up, if we can, but do not wait for us until you reach the mountains. If we do not come, take the road North. Not South, that goes to Nogrod. North. Ride straight to Belegost, tell them that the Sons of Fëanor sent you, and ask for refuge with the family of Audur, of the house of Azaghâl . Have you got that?”

“Can’t we help you fight?” Elros asked him, in a voice that was trying desperately not to be shrill. Elrond was looking strained and unhappy, perched high on Maedhros’s tall stallion. 

“Use the speed of the horses, and keep yourselves well clear, this time. Your turn will come,” Maglor said. He grinned at them reassuringly over his shield, and drew his sword. Around him, the other Noldor were finishing repacking the few supplies, checking their gear. “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before. Are you ready?” 

The horses sidled and snorted as they entered the shallow water, although it was only a few inches deep. The Noldor closed in behind them on foot, swords in hand, watching the horizon. 

“This is where Beren came down and slaughtered the army of Nogrod,” Maglor said, half over his shoulder to Elros, who was riding next to him. “That’s why I said, don’t go to Nogrod. In fact, it might be better not to mention Beren or Doriath in Belegost either.”

“We’re not ashamed of our family,” Elros said, indignantly. 

“And why should you be? But there’s no need to tell all at once. You are princes of the royal line of Gondolin, and sons of the House of Hador who were allies of Belegost in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. That is worthy of honor, too.” Elros considered this, and nodded. Maglor turned, walking cautiously on the wet rock under the water, and scanned the land behind them. The horizon was still clear. 

“This is that same ford?” Elrond asked. “Is the gold and treasure still strewn on the riverbed?” He peered from the horse’s back, down into the pool beside the causeway, trying to see through the river-reflections and shadows. 

Maglor had told them a good deal about the battle of Sarn Athrad, where Beren had caught the Dwarvish army that had sacked Doriath, taken from them the Silmaril and left none alive. Fëanor supposed that as recent history went, it was one of the less uncomfortable topics for him to discuss with Beren’s great-grandchildren. 

“I doubt it,” one of the other Noldor said. “Orcs don’t like water much, but they love gold. They have been swarming all around here. Men, too. Men love gold more than orcs do, and they don’t mind water at all.” 

“As opposed to Elves, who don’t care for treasure at all, Alwion,” Elros said sceptically. 

“Hah! Well, I for one would trade all the gold in Angband for a surety of no arrow in my back. And drier feet. This water feels like it comes straight from the snows of Mount Rerir! ” 

They reached the small flat island, still set with broken columns marked with dwarvish runes, that marked the midway point across the ford. There had been a building here once, an inn that had served travellers on the busy road that had carried trade from Doriath, Nargothrond and the distant Falas to Thargelion and the kingdoms of the Dwarves.

As he came out of the water, Alwion bent and hooked something out of the water with one finger of his sword-hand : a golden wrist-cuff worked with some fine markings. It was a little bent and battered, but still shining. “There you go,” he said handing it up to Elrond as they crossed the island. “It seems the orcs have not picked up everything after all. A remembrance for you, young lord.” He stepped into the stream again, heading for the further shore. 

Then his eyes widened, and he leapt backwards, away from the water, only just keeping his feet as he landed in a shower of icy spray. The horses shied and backed away towards the middle of the small space of dry land, whinnying in terror. Something huge and black had reared suddenly from the deep pool beside the ford ahead of him, huge claws snapping. Each claw was the height of a tall man, and there were many of them. Water flew in all directions. Only his sudden leap backwards had saved Alwion from being snapped in two. 

Fëanor, like all the rest, was taken by surprise. They had all been watching the skyline for threats. None of them had seen or sensed the darkness lurking in the pool until it broke the surface. 

The beast lunged forward, towards the island that was their only refuge above the water. It was bare, sandy, and not more than a double handsbreadth above the water at the highest point, and now it was crowded with Elves, who were hastily forming a shieldwall, and behind them horses and hounds. Alwion had dropped his shield and was busy trying to convince Elrond’s terrified horse not to bolt. 

Fëanor threw himself out, unseen, onto the surface of the water, and struck at the thing with his spirit-sword. It was like striking at the gates of Angband itself, armoured with huge plates of some thick black material which overlapped, leaving no clear flesh to strike at. 

It fell back for a moment, but his sword made little mark on it, and he resolved that he must look at the blade again. It should have more strength than this against the beast. 

Or beasts; another of them was crawling up into the shallow water of the ford to the East, between the beleaguered Noldor and the road to the mountains. It struck heavily at the nearest Elves, who caught the blow with difficulty on their shields. Some of them had managed to grab spears by now: they had been loaded on one of the horses, as less likely to be needed in the kind of battle at the ford they had expected. 

They thrust at the beast that was attacking their eastern side. It grabbed at the movement, splintering the shafts. Fëanor charged, fleeting unseen across the water, and it roared as he hit it but that left the other thing free to come up on the other side. And now there was a third, crawling many-legged and armoured out from the pool into the shallow water of the ford from the West, its huge claws snapping. The stench of Morgoth was everywhere in the air, sharp and sulphurous, almost choking.

From the centre of the island, Maedhros called out hoarsely, a jumble of words that Fëanor could not quite make out, but he could feel the strength beating out of them. 

Then Maglor’s voice joined his brother’s, clearer and more musical, rising above the sound of swords and the crashing of the water under the massive claws. He heard the sound of Maglor’s harp, strange and delicate in that desolate place, and understood. 

Fëanor hastily joined the group on the island, slipping unseen into place as the savage claws crashed again on the shieldwall, and the horses screamed and reared. The sound of the river was growing louder, and now there was a vast slow rumbling behind it. The wide empty valley was shaking. The black clawed beasts slowed their attack, hesitating. 

Then it rolled into view, at first just a white line in the far distance, but swiftly growing in height, utterly improbable in that wide open valley, spilling out onto the banks as it came. A vast wave, white-crested, enormous. It roared as it came, and all the while as counterpoint, quiet yet clear, Maglor’s harp and voice sang the low island up into a refuge tall and strong, holding them high above the water as if on a great cliff that stood against the Open Sea, as the huge wave crashed past them. The beasts of Morgoth were lifted and carried off bodily, smashed against the rocks, impaled by the tree trunks caught up in the tumult and torn apart by the power of the angry river. 

And then all was calm again. The river subsided, back into its bed, sparkling bright in the growing light from the rising sun, which could now be seen just above the mountain-wall. The running water moving over the stones sang quietly to itself, in harmony with Maglor’s harp, which rippled on for a little while as the ground sank beneath them, and then fell silent. 

“Onward!” Maedhros ordered, as if nothing had happened at all. “We must get up into the hills. Who knows what other surprises have been left for us here?” 

They hurried across the rest of the ford warily, but met no more opposition. They rode up into the woods of Ossiriand, autumn-golden still, though the sun had now moved high enough to be hidden behind the clouds from the North. 

Elros leant down across the horse’s neck once they were well clear of the water. “What under the Sun were those things?” he asked Maglor. His face was still pale with shock. 

Maglor shook his head “I do not know. The Enemy breeds many such beasts, but infesting the rivers... that is new. Usually they fear running water, and the Sun.” 

“Like the spiders, in the woods,” Elros said, remembering. “They wove their webs to keep the light out, and we burned them.”

“Yes, they were very similar, if not quite so large. I wonder if there are dark caves beneath the river where those things sheltered from the light? It was our ill fortune that we crossed before the Sun was high.”

“Ill fortune?” Elrond exclaimed. “It was amazing!”

Alwion, who was still walking next to them, smiled, “He’s right, my lord. It was.” 

“It was hard work,” Maglor said. He rubbed his face with his hands. 

Elrond looked at Alwion in curiosity. “Can you do things like that too? Raise the river?”

Alwion made a face. “Me? I’m not a lord! Maybe I could raise a mist, on a lucky day. But I’m better with a sword.”

Maglor said “The use of the arts of mind is how the Elves first began to choose kings and lords, long ago, did you not know? On the long and dangerous road from where we first woke by Cuiviénen into the West, we chose to follow those with the strength to shape the world to protect us. Raising land or water, strength against the shadows that sap the heart, healing; all the arts of the mind.”

“It’s not just that we think they look good in crowns!” Alwion said, grinning. Maglor rolled his eyes at him. 

“The art runs in families: mine and yours,“ he told the boys. “Or at least, your Elven family — and Lúthien of course. I never met her, but I hear she had all her father’s skill and all her mother’s strength. I don’t know if Beren and Tuor had such talents. If they did, I never heard of it.”

Elros frowned. “So how did Men come to make kings?”

“I have no idea,” Maglor said. “Perhaps they chose by wisdom, or by force of will. But now they do as the Eldar do and make kings by blood and seniority of line, I believe. Well, mostly.” 

“But we could learn to raise the river too? Will you show us how, Maglor?” Elrond asked hopefully.

“Certainly, if you like. But it may not be so easy to practice. The river Gelion runs through the lands that we protected for many long years: Amrod and Amras on the west bank, Caranthir to the east. It answered when we called because it remembers us still. So it is not just the knowing how to call, and having the strength and will to do it, but calling a river that will answer you. Like calling a horse, or a dog... Much easier if it knows you already. I could teach you the way to sing the ground up in defence. That is simpler.”

“I’d like that,” Elrond said. “Like calling a horse? It does not sound too difficult.” He rubbed the horse he was riding idly on the neck with one hand. 

Maglor looked up at him. “You must promise me, though, that you will only practice when I am there to help, at least until I say you are ready. I remember, when I first started working with those songs, I was not much older than you are. I went off into the hills behind Tirion all alone, and buried myself in a landslide. Maedhros and Fingon had to come and dig me out... All the while they were digging, I was pleading with them not to tell our parents. I don’t think they ever did, either! But that is not a risk to take in Middle-earth. It’s exhausting, using your strength like that, it leaves you vulnerable.”

“It was quite a foolish risk to take even in Aman,” Maedhros said, coming up behind them with the rear-guard. “And no, I never told them. It seemed unlikely you would do it twice... Elrond, I think we are close enough to Belegost now that we are unlikely to be attacked again. I’d appreciate it if I could reclaim my horse, if you are not too tired to walk for a while. Maglor spoke the truth when he said using the art like that is an effort.” 

Elrond dismounted, and handed the horse to Maedhros, and Elros gave his to Maglor, who mounted with some relief. They walked on in silence for a little while. Elrond looked thoughtful. After a while, he asked “Do you think the River Sirion would remember us? Me and Elros, I mean.”

“Perhaps. There’s only one way to find out,” Maglor said. 


	10. Steadfast in Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros and Maglor and their company come to Belegost, which is preferable in every possible way to living among the giant spiders of the Taur-im-Duinath. Elrond and Elros practice their sword-fighting, and we get a glimpse of the Host of Valinor commanded by Finarfin.

The doors of Belegost were shut, and a strong guard of heavily-armoured dwarves in mail and helmets embossed with runes manned the towers and guard posts that stood around it. The Dwarves did not fire on the approaching Elves, but they did not seem happy to see them, either. 

They waited outside the gate all day, hungry, thirsty and all of them uncomfortably aware of the sights of the huge siege weapons and war bows that were trained on the ground where they stood, but trying not to show it, while Maedhros politely greeted first one Dwarf and then another, and another. It appeared that the Dwarves of Belegost did not quite know what to do with them. 

Maglor moved quietly through the Noldor, speaking to one and then another, reminding them once again, in Quenya, which was not much spoken by Dwarves, that Belegost had been their true and trusted ally in battle, and that their lord was counting on them to speak softly and choose their words with care.

Fëanor had almost decided that the entire journey North had been a waste of time, and was considering whether there was any merit in his going North alone, to see what Morgoth might be up to, when at last a Dwarf came out who seemed uncomplicatedly pleased to see the Elvish visitors. 

It was Audur of the House of Azaghâl, known as the Elf-friend, who had fought beside them in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad years before. There were white strands showing in her beard and hair now, but she was hale and cheerful as she greeted them. Maedhros sighed with relief to see her. 

She brought with her younger dwarves, some of her many nephews, bearing gifts of hospitality. They were generous ones too, for all that they had taken so long to arrive: white bread, thick slices of goat cheese and smoked ham, jugs of wine, and slices of a rich dark cake studded with fruit and iced with sugar. These last were received with such obvious delight by Elrond and Elros, who probably had never encountered such a delicacy before, that several of the company set their own slices aside for them, as for younger brothers. 

The Noldor were welcomed at last into the city, and brought to the high-ceilinged, finely decorated guest rooms designed for Elvish visitors. They had stayed there before, in the immediate aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad: a time that seemed much less black now in the memory than it had done at the time. 

The rooms were fitted with fine wooden furniture, built tall enough for Elves to use comfortably. The sitting room that they gave to Maedhros even had a small window, rather than light that came only from lamps or through long shafts from the mountaintops. 

“May the stars shine on Caranthir,” Maglor said to his brother, collapsing into a well-padded chair with considerable relief when the Dwarves had left, departing with many bows and compliments. All the others had retired for the night. “It would never have occurred to me to sell them licenses to use our ideas, rather than simply make whole things to sell to them. You’d think they’d be upset about it, but Audur seemed delighted!”

“I am not sure that they would have been so delighted if we had wanted to take away all the treasure that they have so carefully accounted as ours,” Maedhros said, and then rubbed his tired eyes. “No, I am being unfair. They are very generous hosts. And they will be most happy to trade us workshop time and materials for the gold and silver, which is just as I’d wish. It will give us time to speak of alliances. ”

“Do you think they are all right?” Maglor asked him. “Caranthir and the others, I mean. In the Halls of Mandos.” 

“I don’t know,” Maedhros said, slowly. “I cannot believe the Valar would be deliberately cruel to them. But... I am not sure they will understand them either. Particularly Curufin.”

“Poor Curvo...” Maglor said. Maedhros looked at him, and Maglor made a gesture of acknowledgement. “Oh, all right. It wasn’t his fault that he was afraid, and could find no way not to be, for all his ingenuity and pride. Harder for him, too, because he was the only one of us with a son to worry about. I should have been kinder.” 

“And Celegorm?” 

“Don’t push it. I’m not sure I’m quite that forgiving yet, even if you are.”

“Celegorm didn’t attack the Havens,” Maedhros pointed out. 

“What a cheering thought. Oh, all right. I admit it: I lost the right to say harsh words to any of our brothers at the Havens, when our own people tried to stop us and I killed them... Can I stop thinking about it now?” 

Maedhros shrugged. “Mandos will probably understand Celegorm more easily than Curufin.”

“Or our father, for that matter,” Maglor said. Maedhros looked down at his cup, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “If Mandos understood our father, we might not even be here... I hope he is all right. It will drive them mad, if they lock them up with nothing to do, and the Oath. Well. Madder. But that would still be better than failing and... everlasting darkness. Surely the darkness will at least wait for the last of us to fail in our task. Surely...”

“I don’t think the everlasting darkness has taken them yet,” Maedhros said, although he did not explain why he thought so. “But we will very likely find out, soon enough.”

“We may. You know, I never thought it would be me and you, still here at the end. Well, it would be you, of course. You’re tougher than an old boot and the oldest. You were always the strong one. But me? I never thought I’d last longer than Caranthir. Or the twins.” 

“That’s strange,” Maedhros told him, pouring more wine into both cups. “I always thought that it was you who was the strong one. I’ve leaned on you, all the way since... Thangorodrim.” 

“And here I thought I was just following your lead,” Maglor said lightly. 

“Oh, don’t,” Maedhros looked distressed. “That makes it all even more my fault... I’m sorry, Maglor. I never thought it would come to this.” 

Maglor leant forward again, looking serious and looked him straight in the eye. “It is exactly as much my fault as it is yours. Never doubt that.”

Maedhros gave him what was almost a smile. “Thank you for the comfort. I know my choices have been terrible. Yet you have followed me, every step, although I led you into darkness, and I am grateful. We should have stayed in the North, and tried to retake Himring, instead of going south to Amon Ereb. If I had been able to hope that it would bring us closer to the Enemy’s Silmarils... We should never have attacked Doriath. You were reluctant, and I... Fingon would have...” he let the sentence trail off. 

“Fingon would have stopped us, if he were here, you think?” Maglor said. 

“That’s not quite what I meant,” Maedhros said, sounding apologetic.

“Perhaps he would have tried, at that. But perhaps he would not — can you be quite sure that he would have tried, for Dior’s sake? Doriath never did one thing to aid Hithlum, or any of the Noldor.”

“Perhaps not for Dior’s sake, but for Nimloth’s, yes, I think so. For Nimloth, and all the rest in Doriath who never took or held a Silmaril. Yet died for it.”

“I suppose so.” Maglor shifted, uncomfortably. “I had thought of making a song for poor heroic Nimloth, but who would sing it but me? And no-one here would want to hear it... All the same, who knows what Fingon might have done, if he had been the one with the Oath hanging over him? Fingon was never one for hesitation.”

“No. No, he wasn’t. Isn’t: he’d want to return to life again, if they let him. And surely they will, in time. The Eagle came at his request, after all. I keep thinking, what would he do? And then realising that if he were still here, he’d probably be on Balar, regarding me with horror, like Gil-galad... At least he’s free of all this, in Mandos’s halls — and I don’t have to look him in the eye. But I wish I could have found another path.”

“The hour is far too late for handing out blame,” Maglor said. “I might have stopped you. I could have tried. You were not yourself. I saw it but I was so afraid you’d leave me to the Oath, that I buried myself in music and would not see...”

“I absolutely refuse to let you steal the blame from me,” Maedhros said wryly. 

“In that case, let us share, and leave it that it’s hard to fight the Oath. Anyway. Here for a change we have warm water — how long is it since we had that — beds to sleep in, and will not be woken by a night attack. I’m going to wash, and sleep, and walk in dreams of happier times. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll do the same.” He drained his cup, got up, and went out.

Maedhros’s eyes went to his father’s spirit. He looked Fëanor in the eye for a long moment, but he did not speak. Fëanor did not speak either. 

* * * * * 

  
Safe behind the massive walls of Belegost, the Noldor repaired and replaced their broken and damaged gear. The thin, shaggy horses, sheltered in stone-walled stables from the oncoming winter, bloomed with health again on the hay and oats that the Dwarves traded from the East. The Noldor spun the Dwarves’ goat-wool and flax into fine light cloth, and made new clothes, and even worked a little fine gold thread into some of them, in case their lords should wish to hold a festival some day. 

The forges and workshops of Belegost — at least, those accessible to visitors of almost twice the usual height — were busy with Noldorin smiths working alongside the Dwarves to reinforce the defences around the great gates: the Noldor working mostly with stone, the Dwarves with metal. They were doing good work, too, Fëanor was pleased to observe, although he did have to make a couple of quiet corrections to the plans, where efficiency savings had unaccountably been missed.   

He was able to work quietly on the spirit-sword too, when there was no-one else about, and, after some observation of the technique, even borrowed an idea that the Dwarves were using in their armour-making, which he thought could be usefully extended outside the realm of metal to the art of the spirit, to reinforce the armour called from air and water that he had made for himself against the biting cold of Angband.

In a cupboard in the guest quarters, Elrond discovered a pile of books of poetry and stories from Valinor, left behind by Celebrimbor on one of his visits here long ago, which were passed around joyfully and read in turn by the entire company, even those who could remember Valinor personally. 

No word came from the Valar to Belegost. 

“Do you think it is possible that Mahal might be offended at us?” Audur asked Maedhros, one winter evening when the snow lay heavy around the mountain-walls, and the fires burned bright and warm in the halls, sending flickering light to reflect on the shining carvings on wall and ceiling. “You have met him! If he has come to Middle-earth to fight the Enemy, as you say, why would he not call upon his own people for aid?” 

“I do not know if Mahal is with the host of the Valar, or if he remains in the West,” Maedhros said. “I did not see his face or speak to any of the host: we only saw the ships from afar as we began our journey North.” 

“You would recognise him, and we would not,” Audur tugged on her beard in amazement. “That still seems so strange. Mahal has not spoken to us for time out of mind.” 

“I know that he has not forgotten you. He spoke often and proudly of the Dwarves and their accomplishments,” Maedhros said. To Fëanor’s mind, he was exaggerating matters a little, but then that was diplomacy for you. “I cannot be sure, but it is my belief that Mahal will send you a message when a time comes that one is needed. But in the meanwhile, let us see what we can make out of what the hosts of Valinor are doing.”

He took out three small round balls of crystal from their leather pouches, one by one, with his left hand, and placed them on the low table. “These will not give us the range of vision that we used to have, when I showed them to your lord Azaghâl at Himring,” he said to the dwarf. “The seeing stones work best when there is another seeing stone to call to, and there are few left in Beleriand now.” 

“I have never seen any of these so close before!” Audur leaned close to examine them, until her nose was almost touching the stone. “How do they work?” 

“I cannot tell you how to make them, if that is your meaning,” Maedhros said. “Making them is not a field I have studied.”

“Nor I,” Maglor said, a little apologetically, when Audur turned to him inquiringly. “I fear we lost the knowledge with my brother Curufin.”

“I only know how to use them.” Maedhros said. “They call to one another, so unless you direct them elsewhere with an act of will, they show what the other stones can see. You can touch thoughts through them too, even if the other stone is held by someone who is not of your blood or allegiance — even if they do not know how to hold their mind open, even. That can be useful, sometimes.”

Audur looked alarmed and pulled her chair back, leaning well away from them. “Are there none in the hands of the Enemy?” she asked.

“No. They are safe, I assure you,” Maedhros said, reassuringly. “Fingolfin the king had the same thought as you. By his command, all of those that were made in Middle-earth are subject to their masterword, known only to a few. Any of the seeing stones that fall to the Enemy become lumps of rock again. He cannot use them.” 

“Clever,” Audur said, a little regretfully, and she reached out and touched one cautiously. “I wish we knew the trick of making them. But they will show us the host of the Valar, you say?”

“I hope so.” 

He pushed the three stones together in a group, just touching and held his hand above them for a moment. They flickered, and the hearts of them blossomed with a faint golden light. Maedhros spoke a few quiet words, and then looked down, deliberately, staring at his silver hand. 

Images curled into view, floating in the air, small and bright, merging one to the next: a ruin, burned and smoke-blackened, barely recognisable as what had once been Fingolfin’s great keep of Barad Eithel. Orcs were burning something near the gatehouse, their figures outlined black against the red flames. 

The scene changed, and a pale cold lake was washing thin ice over broken stones which had once been finely-carved. Fëanor recognised it as Mithrim, but only because he remembered it so well. Another broken wall... was it Himring, or Caranthir’s old fortress upon Mount Rerir? It was hard to say. Something huge and dark was scuttling through hills which might once have been in Dorthonion. Darkness lay on Nargothrond, only a splintered patch of moonlight shone through a broken door. Fëanor had seen it all before, of course, and yet unlike Maedhros, he could not look away. 

“They always seek first for the other stones, in the places where they were often used to speak with them,” Maedhros explained. “Now I will turn them to look into the South.” He took a deep breath and reached out to touch the nearest stone. 

Banners, white banners flying against a sky full of stars, flowing in a wind from the Sea. So many of them that they were beyond count. The Host of Valinor was on the march under the winter stars. 

With the clear sight granted by death Fëanor could see, woven through the ground and reaching into the trees, the dark essence of the enemy. It had reached so far from Angband now! he thought, in horror. Across the hills of the Taur-nu-Fuin, the precipices of Ered Gorgoroth and the Valley of Dreadful Death, across the woods that had once been Doriath across the Andram wall down to willow-meads of Tasarinan, Morgoth’s reach now stretched, coiling in darkness. 

Maedhros’s eyes narrowed. He was only looking at the host. “Those are Noldor, from the banners. This must be the host of Finarfin. They are still on the banks of the river Narog, I think. South of Nargothrond, from the look of it. ” 

“So far South, still? I thought they would head straight for the Anfauglith and the gates of Angband, as we did,” Maglor said in surprise. “But then, I suppose they landed much further South, and have been fiercely opposed from the start.” 

“We knew the host of the Vanyar landed further north and west than the Noldor did, at Eglarest. They had to fight for it,” Maedhros told Audur. “But it has been some time since the seeing stones have consented to give us sight of the Noldor host. We saw them land at the Havens at the mouth of Sirion, and they were camped there for a while after they cleared out the orcs near the shore. But that was months ago.” 

“They are under attack!” exclaimed Audur, looking at a flurry of activity, barely to be seen in the distance. 

Maedhros looked thoughtfully at the bright image, distant and yet present. “Orcs and Men are not the only servants of Morgoth that are roaming Beleriand now. And he can work the weather, too. I think they are having to fight for every foot of land. I will try to show it more clearly.” 

He stroked the stones with one finger, cautiously. They saw for a moment a whirl of images. Great spider-webs strung between the trees to hinder the army’s movement, and monstrous water-beasts diving and bellowing in the River Narog. As they watched, a small party of warg-riders burst from the trees and feinted at the Noldorin flank, which struck back swiftly, racing after them. 

“Oh no,” Maglor said softly, and winced, seeing at once what was coming. The sortie was following the lightly-armoured warg-riders a little too close to the river, moving at speed and unwarily. Then, inevitably, the ground collapsed beneath them, bearing the armoured Elves down into the water, where savage teeth and the swift river awaited them.

“It’s painful to watch,” Maedhros agreed. “But they will learn. We did! Soon they will think twice before they dash into a counterattack against a swifter foe on unknown ground without thought or planning. And even now, they must be doing the Enemy a good deal of damage. The Vanyar slaughtered orcs in heaps when they re-took Eglarest, and the few that got away fled in terror. But our Enemy is well prepared, and his forces are legion.” 

The host of the Noldor of Valinor was under deep shadow now, and it was hard to make out even the white banners they carried. “I think he’s sent them another hailstorm,” Maedhros said. “We’ll see no more until it is over.” 

He reached out to the stones, but before he could touch them, a face appeared, young but stern, lit by a warm light. Behind him, a high room adorned with tapestries could be seen. His dark blue cloak was fastened with a great gold brooch marked with the winged sun and stars of the House of Fingolfin. He looked out of the image, meeting Maedhros’s eyes for a brief moment, startled and frowning, and then made an impatient gesture and the image vanished. The light in the stones faded and went dark. 

“Who was that?” Audur asked, in surprise. 

“That,” said Maedhros, with a resigned note in his voice, “was Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. I said these stones all look to one another. Gil-galad has at least one of the stones of Hithlum with him, on the Isle of Balar. Sometimes they call to one another unasked, if he comes to use his stone when I am using these. He has nothing to say to me. A pity. I would like to hear his opinion of the advance of the hosts of Valinor.” 

“I have never understood this,” Audur said, puzzled. “I understood that you are the eldest son of the elder line of your house, lord Maedhros. How can it be that this Ereinion Gil-galad claims to rule your people? It is as if some lesser house should seek to take the place of the line of Azaghâl. It turns everything upside down!”

“Things are different among the Noldor, to how they are for the Dwarves,” Maglor said, quickly, glancing cautiously at his brother. 

“I set aside the kingship of the Noldor, long ago,” Maedhros said, calmly. “Gil-galad is a far better king than I could be, and his father was my cousin and more than my friend, long before he was my king. I have had other business.”

“Well, it still seems very strange to me,” Audur said, looking disapproving. 

 

* * * * *

Elros and Elrond were practice-fighting, with light, blunted practice blades and real, full-length war shields, at one end of one of the long drilling-halls that the Dwarf-guard of the mountain-city used for their practice. They both moved gracefully, but they were at the awkward, long legged stage of their growth, and so were less agile than one might expect of children of the Eldar. 

Maglor was watching and calling out advice from time to time. They had been going long enough that both were breathing heavily, when Elros managed to catch his brother off-balance and knocked him sprawling. 

“Four-one to me!” he called out triumphantly.

“Ow,” said Elrond, letting the shield go with a clang, and rolling on his back to rub the knee that he had bruised on a stone bench as he fell. “You are getting far too good at this. I don’t want to fight you any more!” 

“You let him back you against the wall again,” Maglor told him. “You’d be evenly matched if you pushed him harder.” 

“I really don’t think we would,” Elros said.

“And that’s why you aren’t.” Maglor said, gesturing to Elros who waved his sword triumphantly at his brother, grinning. 

“Well, I’m still all bruises. Can we stop now? I’m tired.” 

“No. If you want to walk out of a battle and not just into it, you need to be able to fight when you are tired. Pick up your shield.” 

Elrond picked up the shield. “Will you fight me for a bit?” he asked Maglor plaintively. “You don’t shove as hard as he does.”

“Perhaps I should shove harder, then. But all right. Elros, you have done well. Go and find Carnil, and tell her I asked her to fence with you for a little while. Elrond, we’ll stand in the middle so you don’t bounce off the furniture. See if you can get my shield down.” 

“This seems so pointless,” Elrond said, circling Maglor with sword extended as Elros ran off. “Could I not try a word of command? I would if this were a real fight.”

“If you tried to use a word of command on me, here inside a mountain, I could bring it down on your head,” Maglor said, turning effortlessly as Elrond lunged at him panting, and knocking his sword-tip to one side with the shield. “I wouldn’t even need much strength of my own. I could turn yours back on you. It would be a terrible risk to take: you would have to be desperate. A sword is more precise, just as effective against many foes, and nothing like so tiring, once you are used to using it. ”

“But I’m never going to be able to beat someone like you with a sword.”

“You might be surprised.” Maglor caught the sword-tip again and moved sideways. “Don’t forget to look where you are going! You’ll be too close to the wall again. Maedhros could show you how he’d do it. He’s better than me, even with his left hand. Perhaps I’ll ask him to give you a lesson.”

Elrond stepped back in alarm, his sword-tip dropping. “No. I don’t want...” 

“Why not? It is better to learn from the best.”

“I am afraid of Maedhros,” Elrond said, in a low voice. 

“Oh.” Maglor was taken aback. 

“Don’t tell Elros. He says we should be afraid of nobody.”

“Well, that’s Elros. Don’t take him too literally. Of course you should be afraid of... of the Black Enemy of All the World. Everyone should. He is much to be feared! But my brother Maedhros does not want to hurt you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Elrond, I am standing right in front of you with a sword in my hand. If we wanted you dead, you would be dead, you have known that for years.”

“I don’t mean you.” Elrond put the sword and shield down neatly side by side on the floor and stared at them. “I mean him. He’s the one that... ”

“No. Don’t ever say that, or think it,” Maglor said, and his voice was sharp with pain and anger. “Maedhros has killed his own kin, but so have I. Over, and over, and over...Do not fool yourself into believing that I am the one that you can trust. Do not blame Maedhros for my decisions. I chose to take the Oath. Foe or friend, foul or clean... I am sworn to kill, or the Everlasting Darkness takes me.”

Elrond took a step back in alarm at the anger in his voice. Maglor put his sword and shield down on the ground, next to Elrond’s, and held out his hands, weaponless. 

“I chose to be a murderer,” he said, in a quieter voice, despairing. “You should trust me no more than him. Less. Maedhros tried to forswear the Oath, and it tormented him cruelly. I have not dared to do the same. If Maedhros is your enemy, then so am I.” 

Elrond looked at him for a moment, then he stepped over the swords lying on the floor, and laid a hand on Maglor’s arm. “You are not my enemy,” he said seriously. “If I had a Silmaril, I would give it to you.”

Maglor looked at him, speechless. 

Elrond looked uncomfortable at the silence. “Also, I have got your shield down,” he said, pointing at it where it lay on the ground. 

Maglor laughed, painfully. “You have,” he admitted. “Don’t tell Elros. If you do, he won’t rest until he has done it too, and I don’t think I need the practice. I already have enough bruises.” 

Elrond picked up the swords and offered Maglor one of the hilts. “Should we go on?”

Maglor reached out to take it, and then let his hand drop to his side instead. “I find that I am very tired of swords, just now,” he said. “Shall we go out from the city into the hills instead and practice singing up a landslide?”

“Yes!” Elrond said eagerly “But I thought it was dangerous?”

“Of course it is dangerous. But I am the infamous Maglor, Son of Fëanor, and you are the one who has just taken my sword and shield. Unless we encounter a Balrog, nothing we meet in the hills will be as dangerous as we are.”


	11. As Little Might Be Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Elros are approached by Maedhros with a request for diplomatic assistance.

Elros and Elrond were sitting in a corner of one of the great halls of Belegost. They had come up from bathing in the huge elaborately-wrought bath-cavern in the heart of the mountain, and were now basking joyfully in the warmth of the bright coals that glowed in the stone fireplace. 

They had lived in Belegost for over two years now, and outside the mountain-city, the wind blew cold again and snow was falling. They looked very different now to the grubby children in patched clothes and deerskins who had come to the city out of the Forest between Rivers. 

They were tall now considering their youth, dressed in fine-spun wool and linen that had been worked artfully by Lanwion to show the white swan wing of Tuor and the blue flower of Idril of Gondolin. On their wrists they wore the silver arm-rings that Angruin had made for them, with red enamelled spear-heads of the House of Hador standing against a complex delicate tracery of spreading trees and leaping hounds that were not too obviously either the trees of Doriath, or the faithful hound of the House of Bëor. 

There were not many Dwarves around. Usually, the Elves stayed near the guest quarters, where the corridors and rooms were all built tall enough for Elvish guests, and most of the Dwarves of Belegost spoke with them only when they had business with them, but this hall, the Hall of Heliodor, was often used by Audur’s family and friends as well as by the Elves. There had been a few Dwarves who had come in from night guard duty, taking their breakfast there, earlier. 

The twins were playing a game of King’s Table with the elaborately carved wooden pieces that two of the Noldor had made for them. The King-piece and his bodyguard had been made by Alwion from ash-wood, and they were tall and fair, but the red army had been made by Panonis, and they were of red-grained plum-wood, with small finely-detailed furious faces and pointed beards. Elros was playing the King, as he usually did, and was losing. 

Fëanor lingered near them, watching the game unseen. They were old enough now that they were not taking it overseriously, and there was something calming about watching them play, as long ago his sons had played such games in Tirion. 

Maedhros came across the hall to them, tall and dark-clad, with his red hair catching the light from the fire. They stood, exchanging wary glances, to acknowledge him: they had been taught court manners suitable for princes, of course. 

They had not seen much of Maedhros recently: he, and Fëanor with him, had been away from the mountain-city for some time, fighting orcs in the foothills of the Ered Luin.

Maedhros flung himself down into a chair next to them and gestured for them to sit. 

“I have a favour to ask of you,” he said, abruptly. “I would like you to speak to Gil-galad for me.”

“You want us to travel to the Isle of Balar?” Elros said, jumping up again in amazement, as if he were ready to start at that very moment.

Maedhros shook his head. “Nothing so time-consuming, or so dangerous! I need to speak with the Eldar of the Isle of Balar, to coordinate our attack with the forces on the coast. We could do so from afar, if they would only agree to speak to me, or to Maglor. But Gil-galad will not answer us, and my nephew Celebrimbor closed his mind to me long ago. And so we are cut off, groping in the dark. ”

“But of course we want to speak to the King!” Elros said at once. “I remember him visiting Mother... before. In the Havens. Of course we want to speak to our mother’s friend! Can we do it now?” 

“The thing is, though,” Maedhros said, rubbing at the wrist of his missing hand where the silver cuff touched the skin, and not looking at them at all. “I cannot be sure that he will choose to answer. It is very likely that he believes you dead. He may think you shades, illusions that we have made to trick him.”

“I see,” Elrond said. “So he might not want to speak to us, either? But Maglor promised us, that if there was any word of our father, you would tell us. Stuck here in the North under a mountain, we will never hear any other way.” 

“That is true, and I would not break that promise. But even if Gil-galad can be convinced that you are the children of Elwing, he may well believe that we have broken your minds, as Morgoth sometimes breaks the minds of his thralls. He is unlikely to trust you immediately. He might even try to do you harm, if he believes that you are a trap set by the Enemy.”

“Oh, but... surely that’s ridiculous?” Elros said. “You and Maglor are not the same as Morgoth! Doesn’t he know you?”

Maedhros paused for a long moment. “I met him a few times, in Hithlum, when he was a child, before the Dagor Bragollach,” he said at last, and he sounded very distant. “But that was a very long time ago and... Well. A great deal has happened since then.” 

“It certainly has,” Elrond said, thoughtfully. He looked at Elros. “I think we should try it anyway. He was still our mother’s friend, and he may have news of our father.” 

“We have to try,” Elros agreed. His eyes were bright and hopeful. “We will just have to convince him that he’s got it all wrong. Then we can talk to him, and ask him what is going on in the South.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros said gravely. 

He took the three seeing stones from their pouches and said the words to bring them glowing into life. Then he moved his chair back, away from them a little, and sat down again at a distance. “Look closely into the images, and think of Gil-galad the King, as he was when you saw him last. Think of his face, his clothes, his expression, as if you were drawing a picture.”

Elros gave him a dubious look. “We last saw him when we were six years old,” he said. “I am not sure how clearly either of us can remember him.” 

“You can. The memory of the Eldar is clear. Look back into it, as a mirror, and call on him. Try to open your minds, if you can. I will watch from here. ”

Gil-galad’s face swam hazily into view, becoming clearer and brighter. He looked surprised and annoyed, and reached out with one hand at once in a gesture of denial. Then he paused, and his eyes narrowed. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. 

“I greet you, my lord Ereinion Gil-Galad,” Elros said, politely, in Sindarin of the formal mode. “I am Elros son of Eärendil of Gondolin...” 

“What are you up to now, Maedhros?” Gil-galad said, harshly, out of the floating pool of light. 

Elros looked a little shaken, but he went on, persistently “...son also of Elwing of Doriath, your friend. We met some years ago in the Havens of Sirion, when we were very young. This is my brother, Elrond.” 

Gil-galad stared at them, a bitter expression on his face. “I know this is your doing, kin-slayer. How dare you! To use the forms of their lost children! ”

“My lord, we are not lost!” Elros said. “We have lived with the Sons of Fëanor since... since our mother’s death, taken as hostages for their safety and for ours, but we have not been harmed.”

“I will not be tricked so easily,” Gil-galad said, and you could see that there were tears starting in his eyes. “Did your dark master tell you to do this, traitor? Or was it all your own ingenious idea?”

“Lord Gil-galad, look at us.” Elrond said. “Look well. We are not shades or illusions. We are simply ourselves, the sons of your friends, who now are found again.”

Gil-galad leaned forward a little, staring at them incredulously. “The likeness... is close. So close to Earendil’s face, as a boy, only a few years ago.” He leant back, his face closed and angry. “But it cannot be true. You are not the first snare that Morgoth has set for me.” 

“My mind is open. Look into it.” Elrond said. “We mean no deceit.” 

Then his head jerked backwards, as if hit by an unseen blow, and his eyes widened in alarm. He flinched. Elros grabbed at his shoulder to steady him, and the shock ran through him too. Maedhros moved forward, and reached out swiftly to cut off the life in the stones. But then Elrond pulled himself upright, and met the High King’s stare levelly. He was breathing as it he had been running. Maedhros froze. 

“You are Elrond, Elwing’s son of Doriath,” Gil-galad said, almost in a whisper, wondering. He leaned forward and stared again. “And you are Elros. You are the half-elven children, descendants of Lúthien ... I can barely believe it, even now I can see you plain, even when I see your minds. How can this be?”

“The Sons of Fëanor have treated us kindly,” Elros said, glancing at Maedhros, who had retreated again and sat unspeaking, a little way away. “The lord Maedhros asks...” 

“Do not speak to me of the sons of Fëanor. ” Gil-galad said coldly. “I saw the bloody aftermath of their work in the Havens, for all they slipped through my fingers there. I know what they did in Doriath. You have survived, through some unbelievably slim chance, but there were many who did not.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Elros said at once, apologetically. 

“Where are you?” Gil-galad demanded. “I do not have the strength, myself, to hunt the Sons of Fëanor through the lands that now lie under the hand of Morgoth, but the hosts of Valinor may. And if you are close at hand, I will do all I can to help you, for your mother’s sake.”

“We are in the Kingdom of Belegost, my lord.” Elrond told him. “Please do not worry about us. The mountain-kingdoms are still strong, and have not been attacked by the Enemy.”

Gil-galad’s eyebrows went up. “You are among the Naugrim? These are strange friends you have made, sons of Elwing of Doriath.”

“That was Nogrod!” Elros said, immediately. “The Dwarves of Belegost fought bravely as allies of your father, my lord, and have never attacked our people. And they are not under the hand of Morgoth at all! They were very much pleased that the host of the Valar has come to Middle-earth. They await the call of Aulë to march out to war. They call him Mahal. He is very much respected here. Also, saying ‘Naugrim’ is considered impolite.”

Gil-galad’s face showed surprise at his vehemence. He looked concerned. He reached out again, and touched their minds for a moment, much more gently this time, as if looking for confirmation of something. 

Elros blinked in embarrassment, but then collected himself and asked “Do you... have you heard anything from our father? We have heard no word of him for many years.”

Gil-galad took a deep breath, still staring at them in fascination. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I have news of him for you. And of your mother, too. The hosts of Valinor brought word of them. Both of your parents are well, beyond all hope. Elwing... Elwing was saved as she fell to the waves. Ulmo gave her the form of a great white bird, and in that form, bearing the Silmaril, she flew to your father, in his ship far away. And then your parents decided that there was no more hope left in Middle-earth, and they took the Silmaril, and by its light they sailed to Valinor, to ask the Valar for mercy and aid. And... the Valar answered.”

Elrond’s face looked very sharp and pale now, and Elros was biting his lip. “So all that great host, all those ships full of bright banners... all of them came across the sea because our parents asked it?” 

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, simply. He was still staring at them as if he could not quite believe they were real. 

“So are they there with you, in the isle of Balar? Or are they with the host of the Valar now?” Elros asked, eagerly. 

“No,” Gil-galad frowned. “They were given a choice, whether to accept the fate of the Elves, or the Doom of Men. They chose to stay with us, the elder children of Ilúvatar, in Arda until the breaking of the world. But they are in Valinor, and forbidden to return to set foot in Middle-earth ever again. I was sad to hear it: I miss them too.” 

“Oh,” Elros said, dismally. Elrond said nothing at all, but he looked bereft. 

“I am sorry, Elros, Elrond,” the High King said, and his voice was gentle now. “I can send them a message, if you like: there are those here now who can speak with Valinor. What would you would say?”

Elros spoke without pausing to think. “Ask them why they did not wait for us!” he exclaimed, angrily and then paused as if in shock at his own words. “No... no, not that. That’s not the right thing to say at all... I don’t know. It’s hard to think what message to send, after so many years.”

“They had every reason to believe that you were dead, Elros,” Gil-galad said. “None of us had any idea you might be alive. They will have mourned you bitterly: you were dearly beloved. You were so young... The Sons of Fëanor slew your mother’s brothers when they were children, have they not told you that?”

“Yes. They told us. But that was done in revenge, without orders, by the servants of their brother, Celegorm, after he died in battle,” Elrond said, unhappily. 

“Hm,” Gil-galad said. “I believe that no more than I would if Morgoth offered me both his Silmarils as a peace-offering. But as to the message, there’s no hurry. Think what you would say, and I will contact the lord Finarfin and ask him to pass on the message,” He hesitated. “If you can find your way to us, you still have friends here in Balar. We would welcome you. The Lady Galadriel has mourned you bitterly. ”

Elrond looked at Elros for a long moment before he replied. “We thank you, Lord! I.. I don’t think we can travel to Balar just yet,” he said, in a troubled voice. “The miles are long, and...“ he sought briefly for a way of saying it without naming names, and then gave up “... the lord Maglor says that there are many regiments of orcs massing along the River Sirion and throughout East Beleriand.” 

“He’s right about that, if nothing else,” Gil-galad said, with a twist of his mouth. “Very well then.” His head turned, looking behind him for a moment, as if someone had called his name. “I must go,” he said. “I am needed. But, if you say to me that these ...dwarves of Belegost are your friends, and they have helped you, well, then they are my friends also. I offered you my aid, and I meant it. Anything that is within my power.”

He hesitated. “But... be wary. I know the Sons of Fëanor are watching as we speak: I can feel it. Do not trust them. Even if, as you say, they do not openly serve the Enemy yet, they are eaten up with their oath. I do not think they can tell friend from foe any more. Farewell.”

Elrond blinked several times, and Elros rubbed his eyes with one hand, as the light in the seeing stones died away. 

“That was well done,” Maedhros said softly. “Very well done indeed. Ah, and here is Maglor. I did not expect him to be here so soon.”

Maglor had come into the hall through the South-door, the one nearest to the city gates, still wearing a heavy riding-cloak that was starred with melting snowflakes. He strode quickly over to them, and took each boy by the shoulder, looking searchingly into first Elrond’s face, and then Elros’s. He held their gaze with his eyes for a long moment. Then he let go of them and sighed in relief, looking at his brother reproachfully. 

“I told you,” Maedhros said to him. 

“You did. But you’ve been wrong before.”

“Truth undeniable,” Maedhros said, mildly. “But not this time. Elros and Elrond are free of our ill-luck. Gil-galad recognised them almost at once, and they are quite unharmed, as you have seen. And now the king will at least speak to them, if not to us. He might even speak to the Dwarves, once Elros has given him a few more lessons about them. ”

“What were you so worried about?” Elros asked Maglor, a note of challenge coming back into his voice. “It was fine. The High King looked into our minds and saw who we are at once. And he has told us that Mother and Father are alive and well.”

“I am truly glad to hear it,” Maglor said. “But, Elros, I was concerned that you might be hurt. You are very young for this.”

Elros opened his mouth to protest, but Maglor went on; “Oh, yes, I know, you think you can do anything you wish! But Gil-galad has a strong will and great power of his own, and he is perilous.”

“He is our mother’s friend,” Elros said, stubbornly. 

“Yes. But for almost his whole life, Morgoth has pursued him, with force and with trickery. He watched the rivers of fire take the green plains, as a child, he escaped from Hithlum and it is now in ruins, he escaped Morgoth’s attack on the Falas and fled to Balar, and then he saw the Havens burned by those he had thought his allies. He knows all too well how Morgoth uses face and form, and he has not had a life that encourages trust.”

“Well, nor have we,” Elrond said, reasonably. 

“And that also is a truth undeniable,” Maglor admitted. “All the same, I am very glad you are not hurt.”

“It is not quite as if I had sent them into battle,” Maedhros said to his brother. “They are old enough now to decide if they wish to talk to their King. And I am not entirely without defenses myself. I was watching closely, to ensure the conversation was not overheard.”

“See! We were quite safe!” Elros exclaimed. Then he looked a little uncomfortable. “But he could tell that you were listening, Maedhros. He told us that Mother and Father are in Valinor. But they are forbidden by the Valar to return to Middle-earth. He invited us to the Isle of Balar. He said... he said we should not trust you.”

Maglor looked at him and frowned. “I see his point,” he said. “So are you going? To Balar, or to Valinor?” 

“Would you let us, if we said we were?” Elrond asked, looking from Maglor to Maedhros with grey, steady eyes. Maedhros looked to his brother. 

“I do not wish to keep you here against your will, you know that,” Maglor said, unhappily. “In Valinor there is peace and deep knowledge such as you have never known. The chance to join your mother and father, too. Perhaps if you first went east across the Ered Luin and then south to the coast, there might be a way to somewhere that a ship could put in.”

“If we went to Valinor...do you think we would be permitted to return?” Elrond asked him, looking troubled. 

Maglor shook his head. “I doubt it, if your parents are not allowed to. Though I can’t be sure.”

“I don’t want to go to Valinor,” Elrond said slowly, as if he was making up his mind as he spoke. “Our people, all that are left of them, are here in Middle-earth. We can’t leave them all behind.” 

“No!” Elros agreed at once. “The Enemy is here, not there! It would be craven for us to flee, when so many can’t, especially now, when there is hope of victory at last. As for Balar, well, we will go there one day, but...” He looked at Maglor again. “I think... I think I would prefer to make my own decisions about who I can and cannot trust.” 

“You are sure of this?” Maedhros said, and then, looking at their faces. “Tell us, if you change your minds. Very well. From here, you can be our voice, a link between East and West. For a little while, at least.” He stood up, picked up the three small seeing stones and looked at them for a moment. 

“You can bridge a river from both sides,” he said. “Even a river as broad as Sirion... Here. I give you a gift. The last small treasures remaining to our house.” He put them down on the table again, and pushed one towards Elrond, and one to Elros. “They can be used singly; they are a little easier to direct when they are together, that is all. I will teach you the words to call them to life, and a little of how they are used. Then you can use them to speak with the High King as you wish, with no listening ears.”

Elros gave Elrond a sideways look that clearly said: this sort of thing is up to you. Elrond reached out and touched the smooth side of the stone in front of him. Then he looked at Maglor for a moment before turning back to Maedhros. “Thank you. It is a generous gift. But would you keep them for us a little while longer, Maedhros? Until we have learned to use them, at least. I don’t think we have anything private to say to the High King just at the moment, anyway.”

“Very well,” Maedhros said. “They are yours. You have only to ask for them.” He carefully slipped the seeing stones back into their pouches, one by one. 

“Where have you been, anyway?” Elros asked Maglor, picking up the game pieces and packing them away in a box. 

“I had orders to ride to Nogrod, with messages to the King of the Firebeards. Very pressing orders, they were.” He gave Maedhros a withering look. 

“They did all the better for not having you flapping around them like an old hen,” Maedhros said, unperturbed. 

Maglor gave a laugh that sounded a little forced. “Yes. And I have ridden back from Nogrod as if there were a Balrog on my tail, and all for no reason. I should go and apologise to my poor horse with an apple.”

“I’ll come with you,” Elrond said. “It seems I am not going to get the chance to crush Elros with my armies today, since he has put them all away already.” 

“It seemed inevitable that you would lose,” Elros told him. “I saw no point in prolonging your defeat!” He looked at Maedhros, head up and eyes bright, like someone taking a deliberate risk. “If these two are going to the stables, do you want to play a game of King’s Table, Maedhros?”

Maedhros looked thoughtfully at him, and sat back down. “Very well,” he said. “I have had a somewhat busy time of it since the last new moon. Being defeated at King’s Table will make a refreshing change.”


	12. In Armour of the Elder Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'If I had a host of Elves in armour of the Elder Days, it would avail little save to arouse the wrath of Mordor'_ (Elrond: Fellowship of the Ring)
> 
> Elrond finds out about the armour of the Elder Days, and what it can and cannot avail against. Maedhros loses his temper, and Fëanor's ghost meets a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> [See Map Larger](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bunn/5531459/657258/657258_original.jpg)  
>  The forces of Valinor are on the West bank of the Sirion, which is too wide to be crossed onto the East bank, occupied by Morgoth's forces, except via the land bridge formed by the Western end of the Andram Wall. The remnant Feanorian force is at Belegost in the Ered Luin. Himring is occupied by the Enemy at this point, and probably so is Mount Rerir. The best military route to Angband is across the Sirion and North between Himring and Mount Rerir (Maglor's Gap.)

A little over two years later, in the stone-walled chamber with the small window that looked out from the walls of Belegost, over the mountainside, south towards the distant, unseen Sea, Maedhros touched the stones very gently, to send them back to sleep. 

He waited for the light in them to die, then picked them up, and handed all three carefully to Elrond, who was the one who used them most, and usually had the task of looking after them now. 

Then he drew his sword and smashed it hard into the wooden table, over and over, hacking viciously with the sharp of the blade at the solid oak until it was covered in deep rents. Then he brought his foot down hard on the centre of it, and smashed it right across the middle. Fëanor was fairly sure he must have used a word of command on it, although he had not heard him speak one, the burst of power was clear. And in any case, nobody could break solid oak like that with only their hands and feet. 

Elros and Elrond stood frozen, watching, caught into immobility by the sudden, unspeaking violence. Elrond still had the stones cupped in his hands, his grey eyes wide in alarm. Elros’s hand hovered next to the hilt of his dagger, but he did not draw it. 

Maglor waited, watching. When Maedhros finally dropped the sword and stood there, breathing heavily among the ruins of the table, head down and face hidden by disordered long red hair, he stepped forward and laid a hand on his brother’s sword arm. 

“Are you done?” Maglor asked, very gently, as if there were not sharp splinters of oak spread across half the room. He picked up the sword and handed it quietly to Elros, who looked at it with raised eyebrows, then put it to one side. The edge had been almost flattened.

Maedhros stood silent for a long moment. “Yes. Yes, I am finished.” He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “That was stupid of me.”

Fëanor could not approve of the wreck of a perfectly well-made weapon, not to mention a functional table, but he knew how Maedhros felt. He had once thought that Fingolfin was by far the most annoying of his brothers, but he now realised that that was because he had not appreciated how utterly, infuriatingly wrongheaded his youngest brother Finarfin could be, given a suitably massive opportunity, such as leadership of one half of the Host of Valinor. 

Finarfin in Beleriand made Fingolfin — even Fingolfin back in the old days in Tirion, when he had seemed determined to challenge Fëanor on every possible topic — look like a marvel of intelligent reason and active leadership. 

“You made an impressive mess of that sword,” Maglor said to his brother, lightly. “The smiths will be scratching their heads over how you managed it.” 

Maedhros laughed harshly. “They will, won’t they? What an absurd waste of a good blade.”

“You’ll have another made. They will have several waiting for you to try, anyway. At least you managed admirably to be civil to our uncle Finarfin... to his face, anyway.” 

“I just... I can’t believe he’s just sitting there still, looking at the end of the Andram Wall, and refusing to move!” Maedhros said. “We have told him, time and again, how the defenses above the Gates of Sirion are built and where the weaknesses lie. We have shown him how the Andram Wall is structured, and how the defenses look on the far side, we have told him where he can find the river-harbours and build boats. We built the Andram Wall defenses to be held against the North, not the West! Why will he not move? Every day he waits is a day that Morgoth uses to strengthen his new borders. ”

“You know why,” Maglor said, giving him a sideways look. 

“Because the information comes from us, and we are the accursed of the Valar and all we do must inevitably go amiss? Yes, he made that very plain. It does not follow that everything we know is useless to them!” Maedhros said. “If every single thing we did was such an immediate disaster, then Beleriand would have fallen long ago!” He made himself pause again, and took a long breath, rubbing at his wrist. 

“Well, that, too,” Maglor said calmly. “But we know he also took heavy casualties at the Battle of Tasarinan. It was the first major counter-attack. Up till that point, it must have looked as if this would be easy. I think that now he’s afraid to move in case it happens again.” 

He slapped Maedhros affectionately on the shoulder. “I might share your rage, if I had not made exactly the same mistake myself, after you were captured. I, too, sat still and wondered what on earth to do next.” Strange to see Maglor so calmly tackling a problem, and for it to be Maedhros, of all Fëanor’s sons, losing his temper, but that was how it often went, now. Both of them had changed. 

Maedhros shook his head. “With the minor difference that you were cautious of trying to storm Angband with only a few thousand. Finarfin’s host is enormous, and has the full support of the Valar behind it! Also, right now he is only trying to cross the Sirion, not break into Angband itself...” He broke off, shaking his head. “Ah, well. If he were not more cautious than we, he would not be where he is.”

Maedhros turned to Elros and Elrond. He was still taller than they were, but he no longer looked down on them from such a height. “I am sorry,” he said, “That was a disgraceful display of temper. I hope none of the splinters hit you.” He gave Maglor a brief, apologetic look.

Maglor shrugged. “It was nothing to that time when Caranthir broke all the windows,” he said “And he didn’t have anything like your excuse.” 

“Gil-galad was very impolite,” Elrond said, very serious and just a little deliberately grown-up. “He isn’t like that at all, usually. When I asked if they would be prepared to speak with you directly, to hear the details that I might miss, since I don’t know the land, I didn’t think he would be quite so... so...”

“Pig-headed?” Maglor suggested.

“Insulting,” Elrond said. “But I don’t think he is able to think of, or speak to either of you without thinking of... well. The Havens.”

“And now I am wondering what it is that Gil-galad has just hacked to pieces,” Maedhros said, ruefully. “I hope it was something irreplaceable!”

“I think,” Elros said, diplomatically, “that we could all use a drink. And fortunately, the jug was over here.” He poured out four cups of the light brown ale that the Dwarves brewed. Maedhros drank his thirstily, and poured another. 

Elrond had rescued the map from where it had rolled, under Maglor’s chair. Now he piled the table-legs and the larger pieces of the splintered tabletop by the fire, so he could spread the map out on the floor. 

“I still think that raising the Sirion would be worth a try,” he said, staring at it. 

“I would give it a try, if it were down to me,” Maedhros said. “But we can’t get there. East Beleriand is crawling with orcs. Legions of them, all along the east bank of the Sirion, all playing dice and wondering if Finarfin on the west bank is ever going to attack them, no doubt. Gil-galad and Eönwë will not do anything without Finarfin’s agreement. And when it comes to Finarfin...”

“Shall we leave it that Finarfin is determined that he will eventually cross the land-bridge, and will not consider any other approach?” Maglor said. “And it seems unlikely that he will manage it this year.” 

“Or the year after,” Maedhros said, gloomily.

“You know, I thought when we first saw the banners that if the Valar had come to war,then they would come themselves. Manwë leading in person, ” Elros said. “Why didn’t they? Surely the Sirion would be no barrier to them.”

“Ulmo, Lord of the Sea has come.” Maedhros said. “I saw him from the cliff. It may be that if Morgoth himself comes out to fight, that we will see the Valar themselves at war, but I do not think they will come themselves unless all other choices have been exhausted. They are too powerful.”

“Too powerful to fight Morgoth?” Elros looked very dubious. 

“Yes. If we can raise a river, or sing a landslide, imagine what Manwë or Tulkas could do. When they went to war in the long past, we’re told, the whole of Arda was torn and rent. If that happened again, it’s hard to see how the rest of us could hope to survive it. I assume that is why they have sent the Noldor and the Vanyar.” 

“It’s a pity that the host of the Vanyar are still on the wrong side of the Teiglin,” Elrond said, prodding at the map. “I spoke with Lord Ingwion a couple of times when Gil-galad was in Eglarest with the Vanyar forces, last year. He seemed more willing to listen than Lord Finarfin, just now, I thought.”

“Ingwion is very able, judging by the few times I met him,” Maedhros said. “But where they are camped, the Vanyar have a more formidable enemy to face than orcs, now that Doriath and Brethil have become a breeding-place of dragons. Dragons are bad enough if you are wearing armour designed to counter them, but the Vanyar are mostly spearmen and their armour is made for speed, not to resist flame or poison. Dragons are appallingly resistant to any kind of song-spell or force of will. The Vanyar have good reason not to rush too swiftly into an attack.”

“That is why the forges are working so hard on the new armour!” Elros said. “I see. I suppose it is not so easy for the Vanyar to work on such things in the field and under attack.”

Maglor shook his head and laughed, and Fëanor did too, silently but rather more raucously. “The Vanyar would not know where to start, even if you gave them a fully-equipped workshop and a set of designs,” Maglor explained. “They do not have the skill, or the inclination. They are inspired thinkers and poets, powerful fighters, and they are very brave. But they are not naturally gifted with metal and stone, as the Noldor and the Dwarves are.  And they certainly don’t have the skill of the Broadbeams of Belegost in making armour that can ward off even dragonfire. Most Vanyar homes are shaped through song and word; very beautiful. But their arms and armour are all Noldor-made, you can tell by the styling.”

“Our new patterns are looking very promising,” Maedhros said. “I was looking at them with Audur and Sten, yesterday. They are at the point where they could do with testing in the field. I am thinking that perhaps it is time for us to go back to Lake Helevorn. Our scouts have reported that there is sign of at least one dragon there in the hills, perhaps more than one.”

“If we could clear out Lake Helevorn,” Elrond said, looking at the map, “Could we not then look down from Mount Rerir to the pass behind, and see for sure whether Morgoth is bringing in new forces of Men from the East? I cannot get the stones to look that way.” 

“That would depend on whether he has only dragons there, and not other forces reinforcing the pass,” Elros said, and looked at Maedhros. “Wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes, I think so. I am not sure if Morgoth keeps the old fortress up there manned or not: we’ll want to find that out. It was our brother Caranthir’s old place. It seems that in general, Morgoth has preferred to ruin our work rather than use it himself.... But we can think about that later. I have agreed to follow Finarfin’s lead and not rush on too fast! We’ll deal with one dragon first, cautiously, and then go on from there.” 

“Could we come?” Elros asked. Maedhros and Maglor looked at each other across the room.

“I can’t help feeling you are still too young,” Maglor said, frowning. Elros began to turn away resigned, but Maglor went on; “If you were only of the Eldar, you would be.”

“Both of us can use a sword,” Elrond said, turning away from the map to look at Maglor with calm grey eyes. 

“There is no question you are able,” Maedhros said, looking uncomfortably at Maglor too, “I am not so rich in allies that I can turn away help from those who are willing to give it, but...” 

“That’s not the point,” Maglor said, interrupting. Maedhros looked just visibly surprised. “We are not sure how long Belegost can remain safe.” 

Elros looked startled. “You think that Morgoth will attack the Dwarves?”

“Belegost feels like safety,” Maedhros said, matter-of-fact now. “But so did Himring, and Hithlum, so, I am sure, did Gondolin, and Nargothrond. And Belegost is now the city that is closest to Angband of all Morgoth’s enemies. Morgoth has not forgotten my friend Azaghâl.” 

“But,” Elrond said “If Belegost is at risk, will it not be more at risk if it begins to actively attack Angband? Or if... you do so from here?” 

“They made that choice years ago,” Maedhros said. “They have been quite clear that they do not want to change it. We have discussed it: I could hardly make such plans without our hosts’ consent. They are making plans for both siege and evacuation. But if it comes to it, and if they can get out, they will go east, having no kin now in Beleriand except in Nogrod, and if Belegost falls, then Nogrod will not be far behind.”

“I am not sure that there is any safety left anywhere in Middle-earth,” Maglor said. He grimaced. “But if you two are going to have to battle dragons when you have not seen nineteen summers, then I’d prefer at least that you do it where we can keep an eye on you.”

Elros raised his eyebrows at Elrond and then looked at Maedhros, questioning. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “As long as you stay by Maglor and do exactly as you are told.  I believe that I promised you each a sword. I seem to be in need of a new one myself, for that matter.”

“What was that, the ninth?” Maglor asked. 

“Tenth,” Maedhros said picking up the battered sword from where Elros had put it out of the way and looking at it ruefully. “I am appallingly careless with weapons. But no, this was the sword I carried to the Havens. I shall not be sorry to replace it.”

“It’s only a tool.”

“So you say, still wearing the sword that Father made for you,” Maedhros said, sceptically.  The sword that Fëanor had made for Maedhros had been lost when he had been captured, of course. 

“It has had a few repairs, and Curvo’s special treatment.” Maglor hesitated then half-drew the sword from its scabbard. “It’s yours if you want it, you know that,”

Maedhros made what could have been a brief, cautious glance at his father’s watching spirit, then grimaced and shook his head.  “No.  Too short for me, and anyway, it’s yours.  Angruin will have a few ready for me to choose from.”

“Caranthir’s sword, the one that Telchar of Nogrod made for him, might be of a size to suit Elrond or Elros,” Maglor suggested. “It’s in the armory.  Angruin showed it to me the other day.” Caranthir, too, had been careful of his weapons.  He had carried the sword his father had made for him to Doriath, and it had been buried with him there. 

Maedhros looked Elros and Elrond up and down.  “Yes, perhaps,” he said.  “You are both about of a height with Caranthir now...  Let us go and see. Once you have the new armour, you should wear it as much as possible before we leave. Go back to Sten when you have worn it for a day, and get it checked and adjusted — or  ask Angruin, if Sten is busy, but make sure you ask for Sten first.  The dwarves have done most of the work on the armour, I do not wish to offend them. But make sure you do get it checked. This is going to be dangerous. You will not want to have to take it off to make adjustments because you find something is rubbing unbearably when there are orcs on your trail.” 

* * * * * * 

The small company of Elves that Maedhros had chosen to come with him moved cautiously North through the hills of Thargelion. They were armed and armoured, travelling on foot. Horses of the Elves would endure a good deal for their riders, but Maedhros had decided that the risk that they might panic at the sight and scent of a dragon was too great. 

Thargelion seemed almost deserted. They passed what had once been prosperous small towns built strongly of red stone, now nothing but crumbling empty walls, smoke-blackened and sad. Overhead, thick black clouds hid the sky, as they had done for years. Trees here under the Shadow grew thin and straggly, with sad pale leaves reaching to a sky where the sun could rarely be seen at all. 

To Fëanor’s sight, the land as well as the sky across Beleriand was clouded, blackened as if with smoke, but this mark was a kind that would not be easily washed away. It was less clear to the others, but they could all feel it, a force that sapped the will and burned the spirit. It was darkest to the North, but all across the long leagues of Beleriand that lay between the mountains and the sea, a dreadful shadow lay. 

Paved roads and squares could still be seen, with thin pale grass poking up between the stone blocks, but Maedhros chose routes that avoided them. Roads would be used only by enemies, and the air seemed cleaner when you kept to the foothills of the Ered Luin. But despite the lack of light, there was no lack of life. It was just that the life was all wrong, somehow. Creatures with too many eyes and legs, creatures made more than half of shadows, great flocks of crows that killed for sport as much as for food: all these they saw in numbers, while the trees paled and died in the murk. 

One ruined town they passed was haunted by many small, pale-skinned goblins that boiled out like maggots from the ruins as they approached, then fled screaming when they came closer and realised what it was that had disturbed them. A party of armoured Noldor was a fiercer prey than they had hoped to catch.

“Move on,” Maedhros ordered. “If they give the alarm, we’ll be long gone by the the time their friends can get here.” 

The gloom wore upon the nerves uncomfortably. Their swords shone blue constantly, and so gave no warning. It was almost a relief, after a day and night of travelling to round a straggling bramble-thicket and find an orc-band heading towards them: perhaps a hundred or more heavily armoured orcs, marching in formation. They were directly ahead, and cries went up as they saw the Noldor. Fëanor had been in the rear, watching the road behind, and so the first he knew of the orcs was when he heard their harsh shouts from the road ahead. 

Maedhros had no time for anything but a head-on attack. He gave the command, and the Elves swung shields into place, drew swords, and charged headlong into the orcs before most of their adversaries had had time to prepare for battle. 

None of the orcs escaped. They had been marching unwarily, not expecting attack, with helmets in their packs and armour unfastened. Some of those at the back of the troop tried to bolt North, but Fëanor was behind them by that time, an unseen burning horror, driving them forward onto his sons’ swords. Orc bodies were strewn along the road and their dark blood stained the stones. Maedhros looked at them with a frown. 

“I think we’ll drag these over behind the thicket before we move on,” he said. “They are too obvious here, anyone that passes could not fail to spot them. It’s worth the risk to give us a little more time unnoticed.”

Elros turned a dead orc over with his foot, with an expression full of distaste, before grabbing it by the scruff to haul away. Then he paused and looked closer. 

“You said that the armour of the Vanyar was clearly of Noldorin make, because of the style” he said to Maglor. “Yet this armour seems to me not unlike it. It’s much more like our armour than most Dwarf-armour is.”

“That’s because most orc-armour is also made by Noldor,” Maglor said shortly, hauling an orc behind a bush with a grimace at the smell. “Morgoth has many thralls.”

“Noldor thralls make armour for the Enemy?” Elros said, surprised. 

“Oh yes,” said Carnil, with her mouth down-turned as if there was a bad taste in it. She dropped the orc onto the pile and straightened up. “They always try to take us alive, to work in the factories of Angband. Work under the whip, forever chained in darkness, to make the weapons and the armour that will kill our own. It is not always good to be the best at making things... Not that they would do that to you, of course. You’re a lord, and only half-Elven. He’d do to you what they did to our lord Maedhros, and hang you up as an example. ” Carnil’s voice had dropped to a hollow, haunted whisper, and she seemed afraid of her own words. 

Elros’s grey eyes were wide and glazed with horror as he stared, the work forgotten. “Carnil!” Maglor said sharply. “Enough!”

Carnil shook her helmeted head and blinked. “I am sorry, my lord!” she said, sounding horrified. “I don’t know what... Elros, I was talking nonsense. There’s lord Maedhros, here with us still. If anyone can bring us back safe to Belegost, he can.”

“Time for a ration of miruvor all around, please,” Maglor said, raising his voice a little so everyone could hear the order. He turned back to Elros and Elrond and said more quietly “One swallow only from your flask. It will help, but you may need it on the road home too, so not too much at once. This is not a thing that comes from inside you, it’s an attack. Remember that, it will help you fight it. Keep your hand on your sword-hilt, if you can. Your swords have protections built into them. As you well know, Carnil.” 

Carnil ducked her head, looking embarrassed, and fumbled for her flask. 

 

* * * * * 

Lake Helevorn glinted darkly under the clouds, a long, broad stretch of water surrounded on three sides by a wood of close-growing pine trees that stretched up into the mountains. A hint of a paler light glowed on the mountain peaks to the east, reflection of a brighter world beyond the mountain-wall, but the land that fell away below the lake towards Beleriand was dark. In the distance across the lake, broken walls that had once been white and fair reflected in the water. 

The lake-water smelled bad, as if rotten things were hidden below the surface. 

Maedhros led them higher into the hills, to find one of the streams that fed the lake, that might still be clean enough to drink. Their water supplies were running low, but nobody wanted to drink the fouled and stinking water of Lake Helevorn. 

“The dragon footprints were down by the lake, at the western end,” Alwion said in a low voice to Maedhros, pointing, as they searched for the path which long ago had led this way. “As if it had come down to the lake to drink, then turned away north again.”

“Let us hope it has not moved too far. We will go north, cross the eastern end of the lake through the hills, and come down on it from the east. Something the size of a dragon should be easy to spot, if it is not asleep... Ah, here is the stream at last! Fill your flasks and drink before we go on. At least this one is still clear of the taint.”

Where he stood, a little ahead of the company on the hillside, Fëanor could see the dragon waiting, far ahead. It was coiled, red as rust, long and lithe around the rocks strewn along the lake-shore, with its rear body and tail leading up into a deep hollow in the cliff behind. Morgoth’s shadow curled around it, coiling, whispering, but the dragon itself had a heart of flame. 

It was a young one, he thought, not yet the fully armoured and impregnable beast of poisonous fire it would become, but lethal enough. 

He looked back at the small company of Noldor, picking their way warily through the dying trees, over the litter of fallen pine-needles and broken sticks and past the cliffside. Their armour was grey and patterned with fine embossed lines to match the hues and tones of tumbled stone, so they were hard to see until they moved. 

Maedhros was looking at him again, grim-faced as he walked. There was no question of it any more: he knew his father was with them. Fëanor found it oddly hard to meet his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, and then pointed on down the valley at the dragon. 

He dared not speak more clearly. The darkness that filled the land around them crawled across the the flame of his spirit unpleasantly, looking for a way in. He could not risk opening his mind, and to speak so all could hear might cause panic, since morale was tense enough already. 

Maedhros nodded, once, and looked away. Fëanor went on ahead, swiftly on down the mountainside to the lakeside, feeling an uncomfortable sense of failure. 

Maedhros had planned his attack with care. They were testing an idea that would be used by the Vanyar, and therefore, they must fight not like Noldor, but like Vanyar, with spears and with agility. All were well used to spear-work — in the forest, it had been easier to keep spears and arrows in repair than swords — but it was not the most accustomed way of going about things, despite the recent weeks of practice. 

Maglor with his harp, Elrond and Elros stayed back to form a rear-guard, up on the hillside, partly screened by trees. The rest followed Maedhros, the visors of their helmets now hiding their faces, long spears ready, moving behind him to the lakeside. 

The dragon watched Fëanor approach through slitted eyes, unmoving. It could see him, too: Fëanor could see the pupil move, before he hastily looked away. Nobody could look into the eyes of dragons safely.

“Who are you?” it said to him, in a voice like rusty iron falling. “Have you brought a message from Gorthaur?”

Disgust twisted within him. It had mistaken him for one of the Enemy’s dead servants. He lifted his sword - but no. If he killed it here, that would defeat the plan, and if he could not kill it cleanly, then it would be injured, angry and all the more dangerous. Still, if it was inclined to talk, perhaps some useful information could be got from it. At least it could be distracted. 

_ What are you doing here, serpent? Does this land not belong to the Sons of Fëanor? _

It hissed, a long bubbling hiss. “Not any more. I have taken it for my own. The previous occupants’ bones are in the lake. Apart from those I use to pick my teeth. I’d take yours too, if you had any left.”

_ Gorthaur won’t be happy you’ve claimed this land to yourself. _ Might as well play the part. 

“I don’t report to Gorthaur. I’m not some miserable spirit, bodiless... I burn!” 

It coughed a long tongue of flame at him, and he leaped aside. The fire was mostly in the physical realm, but not all. He felt the heat of it on his spirit, and reflected from the rock behind him. Good. It must be harder to smell approaching elves with nostrils full of fire and smoke. 

“This is my land now. Mine to wither. What does he want, your necromancer master?”

But now Maedhros was close behind it, moving silently, but fast. Some small sound had reached the dragon, and its long head whipped around with terrible speed, eyes narrowed. It struck at Maedhros like a snake, but its teeth were not the rival of Glaurung the Golden yet and the shield held it. 

Maedhros leaped sideways across the shingle lakeshore and thrust at the dragon with the long spear-haft in his left hand, but the spearhead glanced from a scale and turned aside. The dragon reared back, and flamed, but Maedhros was still moving, and it only caught his armoured heel. 

Two more spearmen came in, thrusting, as the flame died and the dragon swatted at them with a huge claw. One ducked, catching only the fading edge of flame, but the other was hit, and sent flying into the lake. Another followed, thrown violently across the rocky lakeshore by the flailing tail.

Maedhros came at it again as two more of the Noldor drove their spears towards the dragon’s moving legs and missed. This time Maedhros’ spear hit a mark low down on the dragon’s chest, but it was moving past him too fast, and the spear only tore the skin, leaving an oozing black wound. But as the spear dragged through the dragon’s flesh, it pulled Maedhros off-balance, and he fell. 

Fëanor cut at the scaled throat, but it was too fast for him to do more than catch it a glancing blow as it rushed flaming at Maedhros as he sprawled against the rocks. The sound of Maglor’s harp rippled out from the trees, fair and desperate, and a wind blew suddenly down from the mountain, carrying sand and gravel and its own flame back into the dragon’s wide golden eyes. That gave Maedhros a moment to get his feet under him and his sword out. He slashed at the dragon across its face as it turned, catching the corner of an eye. 

But the dragon was already moving again, the great legs flashing with speed, dashing past the spearmen, its long body bowing into a great spring, towards the sound of Maglor’s harp up among the trees. Another spear caught it in the gap between front leg and body, and it screamed a wild shrill scream, but did not stop, racing with terrible speed up into the trees, which kindled into flame as it passed. Fëanor raced after it, fast as thought, and brought the spirit-sword down towards its neck as Maglor thrust the harp aside and brought his shield and sword up, stepping forward in front of Elros and Elrond to take the blow. 

The dragon crashed into Maglor, driving him back onto Elrond, and then it was falling, crashing down into the thick mulch of pine-needles and rotting wood that covered the ground. Elros had stepped forward as Maglor took the impact, and his spear, the butt grounded against a tree trunk, had caught the oncoming dragon in the chest as it ran. Its own speed had driven the spearhead deep into its fiery body. Elros reeled backwards under the impact, coming up short with his back against a tree trunk. 

A long hissing noise came from the dragon’s mouth, and the light went out of its eyes. 

“Well!” Maglor said to Elros, picking up the harp tenderly from the stump where it had come to rest, and fitting it into its sling. “I was a fool to worry about bringing you. We might as well have just sent you two on your own to do the job... Hey! It’s all right. It’s all over now.” For Elros had pushed up his visor, and his face was white and shocked, his eyes wet. 

Maglor put a hand on his shoulder, concerned, but Elros pulled away as Maedhros and the others came running up, exclaiming at the sight of the dragon that lay dark-scaled and cooling among the smouldering trees. 

“Come on. If we go down towards the shore a little, we won’t have the smoke in our faces,” Elrond said, practically, shouldering his spear. Elros nodded gratefully and followed. 

The dragon had injured several of them — burns, bruises, a broken ankle and a collarbone — but only one had been killed. Alwion, who had been knocked into the lake, had been caught by a claw that had hooked into a weak spot in the armour. The water along the shore was red with his blood. His comrades had pulled him from the shallow, filthy water, but from the size of the wound, he must have died almost instantly. 

Maglor did what he could with bandages and words of healing art to help those who had been wounded, while the others kept watch, and while they watched, they sang. 

They had long ago found a way of singing the lament for the fallen that barely lifted the voice above a whisper, not to attract undue attention in enemy country. For all the crashing that the dragon had made, and the sound of Maglor’s harp, it was safest not to sing out loud, or to rouse the harp if it was not needed. The soft sound drifted out a little across the dark waters, a strange, unearthly sound that vanished into the white curls of mist that drifted across the cold dark water. 

Then they considered what they could do for the dead. “We cannot carry him with us.” Maedhros said, frowning, “and we have no tools to dig a grave. We’ll pull the cliff down a little, here, where it overhangs. He’ll sleep as soundly there as if we had built a cairn, and the orcs will not dishonour his grave.”

There had, of course, been so very many dishonoured bodies left behind already, both dead and living. Here around the lake, Caranthir’s people had lived and here so many of them had died. There was a palpable sense of gratitude, therefore, that this time, there would be a breathing space long enough for a burial. 

* * * * * *

“We’ll cross the Ered Luin, then go south to Belegost on the eastern side,” Maedhros decided. “Thargelion is further under the shadow than I realised: best not to return that way, I think, since we have wounded with us. We’ll defer the journey up Mount Rerir to scout the northern pass. Finarfin would be proud of my caution... We can see from here that there is smoke coming from the fort, so probably it is occupied, and there are not enough of us to take it by assault. Eärrindë will need help with that leg on the mountain-paths, but I believe she can get through, with care. We need not hurry.”

Eärrindë nodded seriously, leaning on the rough crutch that someone had made from the trunk of a broken sapling. Carnil was helping her remove her armour and handing it out piece by piece to be carried by the others. 

Maglor looked visibly relieved. Maedhros had killed his own people to protect the rest, and keep them from the hands of the orcs before. All of them, apart from Elrond and Elros, had seen it done, and recognised it as a hard necessity. 

From another lord, Fëanor thought, even from Fëanor himself, they might not have accepted it. But Maedhros had been Morgoth’s prisoner himself for years. From him, they accepted it. 

But to kill their own was something that had not been needed for some time, not since the battle at the Havens. It would have been hard on all of them if it had been forced back on them by an unlucky broken ankle. 

Those years since the attack on the Havens had made a change in all of them them: the presence of the children among them, the refuge of Belegost, but above all the arrival of the hosts of Valinor, bringing them back to a hope, however distant, that the Enemy might one day fall. 

They had begun to believe again that death or capture might not be the only possible future; had begun to to speak and act as something other than kin-slayers, doomed and without hope. Fëanor felt it in himself, and so did Maglor, so even, he thought, did Maedhros, who had seemed more than once through the years to have fallen into despair. 

Now Maedhros looked up at the eastern hills, calm and resolute. “You used to know this land well I think, Telutan? Take the lead. It will do us good to be heading away from Angband.” 

Walking towards Angband felt like walking into bitter cold and choking darkness to Fëanor, even through all the devices he could contrive to armour his spirit. But now, it seemed the living felt it too. The malevolence of Morgoth had caught at their breath and slowed every step as they went north. 

No army could have passed through the narrow way that Telutan chose for them, but for a handful of Elves on foot, what had once been a winding path that climbed high above the dying forests was enough of a way to slip through into the lands east of the mountains. It threaded through the tall peaks of the Ered Luin, climbing steep slopes that threatened to end in cliffs but never quite did, winding behind boulders but always going on. 

Here and there among the struggling grass and heather, white bones lay; silent reminders of those who had tried and failed to flee from darkening Beleriand. They walked on through the night, and heard the sound of wolves howling far away. 

At last they crossed the last high saddle of land and came down into Eriador in the first light of morning: a quiet grey line of Elves walking softly down onto the short green grass from the high stone passes, almost unseen and silent. 

A wide land stretched pale into the far distance, shaped with the distant outlines of tree, wood and hill, coloured a faint gold by the rising sun glimmering on the morning mist. Far below, the first light of the sun caught on the waters of some distant river, and shone. It felt warmer on this side of the mountains, despite the early hour. The sky was grey above them, a shining grey with faint colours in it like a pearl, though behind them the dark clouds of Angband’s vapours loomed above the mountain peaks. 

As they came down towards the white trunks of the birch trees, it began to rain a little, a thin fine rain with the sun behind it turning the droplets shining gold. 

Elros licked a raindrop from his lips. “It’s fresh!” he said in surprise. “The rain is clean here.”

Elrond said, looking out towards the sunrise and the faint receding silhouettes of distant hills, “What a beautiful place.” 

“Beleriand was like this once, right up to the walls of Thangorodrim,” Maglor told them. “Perhaps it will be again one day.” 

Telutan exclaimed, and ran forward a few steps, dropping to one knee beside the first of the birch trees. “Look!” he said. “They are still here!” Small green shoots were showing, among the dewy grass and the old brown leaves. “The Grey-elves called this the Men-i-Luinil, the Bluebell Way across the Blue Mountains. It was planted with flowers that ran all along the way on both sides of the path in the spring-time. It is too early for them to be blooming yet, but here they are, budding. I’m glad they are still here.” 

Maedhros smiled, an expression so unexpected on that tired face that Elros, seeing it, looked taken aback. It was entirely possible that Elros had never seen Maedhros smile. 


	13. East of the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elros has some questions, Maedhros plays the harp for a change, Maglor would be happier if the discussion stuck to nice simple topics, we meet some Men and discuss kingship and manual labour. Fëanor stays uncharacteristically quiet, Maedhros has a plan, and gets to smile occasionally.

It would have been several days walk back to Belegost, even if they had been travelling at the same speed as when they went north, but with several wounded to consider, Maedhros set a gentle pace through the open birchwoods that filled the eastern slopes of the Ered Luin, resting often, and stopping for the night. The eastern lands were not without peril; wolves could be heard calling at night. But they saw nothing of them, only green leaves and clear streams. 

On the fourth evening, when the sun set and they saw the stars pricking into a clear sky, they even sang: real singing that lifted the voice to the stars. Carnil had shot a deer just as they stopped to camp, and Maedhros had decided that they could risk a fire to cook it, to make a break from the usual dried rations. It felt like a feast. 

Maglor played the harp for a while; not great songs of strength and portent, but old joyful songs out of long ago, praising the stars of Varda, the trees of Yavanna. Then he put the harp down next to Maedhros. 

“Go on,” he said. “You play, for once. I don’t see why I should always have to do all the work.”

Maedhros gave him a doubtful look. “If you would rather listen to my strumming than play yourself, I wonder if you are ill,” he said, but he adjusted the fit of his metal hand with the flesh one, and took the harp.

“I am not ill,” Maglor said, leaning back against a tree and smiling. “I am lazy. I don’t think I’ve been allowed to be lazy for at least five hundred years. I intend to seize the moment.”

Maedhros frowned at the harp, and then tucked it into the crook of his right arm, positioned the silver hand carefully upon the strings, and began to play. He picked out a simple refrain, and then repeated it with more confidence and began to elaborate the theme. Some of the others began to sing, but once Maedhros had played to the end of the third song he stopped and rubbed his living hand ruefully on his sleeve. 

“I don’t have the fingers for this,” he said apologetically to the singers. “The metal fingers are tough enough, but the others are not!”

“I told you it was work,” Maglor said, smiling, looking up at the stars among the birch leaves. “You’re out of practice. You should play more often.”

“Can I play?” Elros asked.

“Of course,” Maglor said, absently, “It’s your harp really, I’m afraid. I took it from Doriath.” 

Elros sat up, suddenly furious. “Does everything  _ always  _ have to be about the cursed Silmarils?”

“I didn’t mean...” Maglor said.

“We know what you did to Doriath. We know, all right? And we know that if either of us ever get our hands on a Silmaril, you really, really want us to hand it over. We get the message, about giving things back. The point is  _ made _ .”

“Elros, I’m sorry...” Maglor said, alarmed. Telutan, sitting near him, got up and collected the waterskins. He headed down towards the stream that ran far below, in the manner of one who was carefully not listening. 

“And you can stop that too!” Elros said. “Enough apologies! We are not Doriath, or the Havens personified. You are all so determined to think yourselves the worst, the absolute worst of Middle-earth. But that’s just stupid. If you were the worst, then Beleriand would not be in darkness, and Maedhros would have two hands.” 

“Truth,” Maedhros said calmly. “But surely you will not argue that the existence of the greater evil excuses the lesser? Though speaking as the lesser evil, I feel I’m arguing the wrong side of this debate.” 

Elrond said, mock-solemnly, “Perhaps you should have a rematch later, and swap sides.” Elros glared at him. 

“Look,” Elros said, “Look, what I’m trying to say is, the very worst is over there,” he waved vaguely north and west, “Under Thangorodrim, not here. There’s no point brooding on things done, unless it helps undo them.”

“And that we cannot do, since there is no undoing death in Middle-earth.” Maedhros said. It was clear he was enjoying the discussion, though Maglor looked as though he would much rather be battling another dragon. “So what would you have us do? Surely regret is preferable to acceptance?”

“Not if it’s just telling yourselves how awful you are, and that nothing better can be asked or offered,” Elros said, with certainty. “ _ Orcs  _ could do that.”

“Do you think orcs feel regret?” Maedhros asked thoughtfully. “I’ve never known one to apologise.” 

“I don’t know. Do orcs have a choice in what they do? If they don’t have a choice, they don’t have anything to apologise for.” Elros’s voice had a defiant note in it. “Surely you’d know if anyone does?” 

“I don’t,” Maedhros replied, easily. “I did not learn very much, when I was Morgoth's prisoner, about the autonomy and morality of orcs. I was inside Angband itself only for a short while — I think it was a few months — or years —  it was very dark. It seemed a long time. But that was alone inside a cell. After that, I was outside, as you know.  I am sure that I was outside most of the time... There was not much chance to observe their ways of thought. Perhaps they do feel guilt. Certainly the Men who serve Morgoth are capable of it.” 

Maglor got up, came over and took the harp. “It was about ten years before we saw you on the mountain. If you are not going to play it then I will,” he said, gloomily, and began, unnecessarily, to tune it, half by sound and feel and half by firelight. 

“And now I have made Maglor unhappy, by reminding him of his regrets,” Maedhros said. “Although, I never expected him to rescue me from Angband, whereas Elros could quite reasonably expect us not to attack his mother, so of the two, the second guilt seems more pressing.”

“I haven’t made a comparison,” Maglor said shortly. Elros made a face that was equal parts sympathy and annoyance. 

Maedhros looked over at Maglor. “If Elros wishes to discuss regret and guilt with us, then surely he and Elrond have the right to do so, if the guilt means anything at all? ”

Maglor looked at him and a smile came back to the corner of his mouth. “You are feeling better, if you can turn my ideas upside down like that. Elros, argue with him! I can’t think like that. I just put all the words into songs and send them outwards... The twisty things he does with thoughts are quite beyond me.” He began to play the harp again. 

Maedhros looked at him. “Hah! You think you’re clever. You will not sap my determination with laments for the deaths of kings. Play something cheerful.” Maglor narrowed his eyes and smiled. He began playing a merry dance from Ossiriand. The other Noldor looked relieved. They began drifting back towards the fire, away from finding things to do that were not listening. 

Elros turned back to Maedhros, determined. “You said, regret is better than acceptance. All right. But making amends is better than either, it seems to me. We finally have a chance now, to win. Isn’t that the important thing? More important than hanging on to the past?”

“And my ghosts come back to haunt me. You sound like Fingon. Yes, I suppose it is. But...”

“How can there be a but? You don’t think the Valar can defeat Morgoth?” 

Maedhros considered. “I hope so. But we have been here before: there was a time when I almost believed that we could win against him ourselves... It’s hard to let go of the past when there is so much of it. But also, we hang onto the past, because it hangs onto us. ”

“I have no idea what that means,” Elros said flatly. 

“I will try to be clearer, then. It is you who has a chance to win. We don’t.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” 

“It might have been, if it had not been for what we did at Alqualondë.”

“But that was centuries ago!”

“Yes. See how the past hangs on? Because of what we did at Alqualondë, Thingol would not make common cause with us when we came to Beleriand. Because of Alqualondë — among other reasons — he set Beren on to take the Silmaril, knowing that if Morgoth did not kill him, we would be bound to try to do it by our Oath. And so Finrod died, and neither Nargothrond nor Doriath would fight beside us. And very soon, we found we could attack Angband without hope, or attack Doriath. Then later the same choice at the Havens, of course.  If we had been able to hope that help might come... but after Gondolin fell, there seemed no chance of that. So the Oath forced us to follow the Silmaril that we could hope to take.”

“But how can there be any honour left in keeping an oath like that?”

“It would have been more honorable to attack Angband and die. But the Oath does not bind us to honour, it binds us to revenge, and to the Silmarils. When we swore, it seemed that all three went together. But they don’t.”

Elros looked annoyed. “Break the oath then.”

Maedhros paused and his eyes drifted to Fëanor’s spirit, waiting in the shadow of the trees. He looked at his father and his face twisted.  _ Go away _ , his eyes said. Fëanor politely drifted further away down the hillside. He could still hear them, of course, but his presence seemed to make Maedhros uneasy, and there was no need for that just now. It was not as if Maedhros had been able to break the Oath, after all. 

“I tried that. It’s harder than it looks. When the House of Fëanor makes things, whether gems, swords or oaths, we make them strong. Even if it has twisted, under Morgoth’s shadow, from what it was meant to be, the Oath is strong.” He paused and met Elros’s eyes, “It may be that you could resist such an Oath, with Lúthien’s strength and Beren’s determination to aid you, Elros. But I can’t.”

“So you would say you had no choice?” Elros asked. “Like the orcs.”

“Oh, worse than that. I don’t think orcs chose their allegiance; they were forced to it. There is no question that our choices were our own, to take the Oath and at Alqualondë; they only narrowed later. ”

“But you didn’t choose to serve Morgoth either! You’re doing it again. This idea that because you once did something bad, you are bound to go on doing worse things. Worse than orcs, even. Come on, you don’t believe that, or why did you make your great union against him? What are you doing killing orcs, helping the Dwarves to make armour for the Vanyar? Why slay Morgoth’s dragon, if you are like him?”

“I can’t take credit for the dragon. No need to be so modest, ” Maedhros said. “But if I had, my reason would be because Morgoth has two Silmarils.”

“Oh, really!” Elros exclaimed, rolling his eyes up at the stars. 

“And the Silmarils are your only reason to fight him?” Elrond asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Well, not the only reason. No. Not that. But it is the reason that must override all the others, even the desire to do as Elros urges me, to make amends for our deeds, or take revenge for our family, friends and all he has taken from us.”

“So,” Elrond said, wrinkling his forehead in thought. “You would say that orcs are better than you are, because they can’t do anything but obey Morgoth?” He raised his eyebrows, making a very doubtful expression.

“The orcs, one assumes, have given up trying to do better, if they ever tried; if they can even remember what regret is. Morgoth’s allies among Men know about guilt and about regret, of course. But I think they do not consider that they are guilty of anything much more than, say, Gil-galad. Not knowing Morgoth’s nature, they naturally believe this is a war of strength, and not of good and evil. But we know his nature, none better — and yet we acted just as he would have wished. Does that not give us the greater guilt?”

“No!” Elros said dismissively. “Not when you are still fighting him! Anyway, what about the others here? They didn’t swear your oath, did they? Does your argument not condemn your own people?”

“I hope not,” Maedhros said, looking around at the small group of Noldor, resting and talking in the firelight, and all very carefully not listening. “They are sworn to our allegiance, and so they are tangled up in our Oath, but it does not hold them. They follow us out of love and loyalty. That is not evil. We have led them on an evil path, but the path was our choice, not theirs.”

“Could you have attacked the Havens without them?” Elros asked. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said, simply. “We are very practiced at war. For many of our people, the Havens was the point where they said: no more. But those who left us at the Havens had to turn on their friends as well as their sworn lords. That is a hard choice to ask of anyone.”

“But surely, breaking an oath of allegiance is also wrong?” Elrond asked. “It seems all paths here are wrong!” 

“Of course. And they are wrong because of Alqualondë, no matter that it was long ago: that was where the path first went astray. But allegiance cannot compel obedience, only require it in honour. Therefore, allegiances can be broken. We could have refused to fight, at Alqualondë, as Nargothrond refused to fight for Finrod. That was their right. A king cannot rule without the consent of his subjects.”

“That is why you chose to waive your claim to be king of the Noldor,” Elros said. 

Maedhros looked pleased. “Exactly right. The Noldor did not want the House of Fëanor. We tore our people into three parts and left most of them behind, unwanted. They knew my father did not love them, and so they lost their love for him, and for me, as his heir. They wanted Fingolfin, who had led most of them across the Ice. Even our own supporters, seeing that Fingolfin would endure so much...” He hesitated. “ _ I  _ wanted Fingolfin to be our king. Our people did not deserve a king who could not lead them with a whole heart... And a king is no king if he clings to power against the interests of his people. Celebrimbor would be another example. He rejected his father, and myself, despite his sworn word to me as his lord, and our kinship. I can’t blame him for that. It was his right. Celebrimbor will never be more guilty than an orc.” 

“I think I still prefer not to have been captured by orcs, even if I were convinced their moral state was superior,” Elrond said, looking sideways at Maedhros.

“Their undeniable moral superiority does not make them pleasant company,” Maedhros admitted, with a faint shadow of a smile. 

“But if orcs can’t do anything but obey Morgoth, and you must obey your oath above all things, then it seems to me that you are, even at the most unkind reading, no more than on a level.” Elrond said, reasonably. “And you are not orcs. For one thing, you were kind to us... Since Morgoth has the Silmarils, victory against him surely is still a victory for you as well as us.”

Maedhros paused for a long moment, and his face fell back into its serious lines. “I wish it was,” he said quietly. “For you to win this war, Morgoth must be overthrown. But for us to win... For us to win, we must be there at the end, when Morgoth comes forth. We must take the Silmarils before the Valar do, somehow, and pray that the Oath is satisfied with two and does not require the third... It seems unlikely that it can be done. But as long as Morgoth has the Silmarils, we are permitted to oppose him. Once he does not, we will be back in the trap we have built for ourselves, at Alqualondë, in Doriath, at the Havens.” 

“You are saying you’d do it again,” Elros said, bleakly. Elrond said nothing, but he bit unhappily at his thumbnail. 

“I think you should be aware that we might have to,” Maedhros replied, frowning. “Elrond, you understate the most unkind reading of events. You should speak more with Gil-galad.”

Elrond stopped biting at his thumb and looked seriously at Maedhros instead. 

“I talk to him regularly. We both do. But I don’t think either of us is convinced that he is always right. Particularly about things that haven’t happened yet.”

“How do you know that I am not holding you hostage, against the day the Valar take the Silmarils? Deliberately working to ensure that if they came to you, children of Lúthien, you’d give them to us? For that matter, can you be sure I am not holding you to trade against the Star in the West?”

“Because you asked that question,” Elrond said, with an air of exaggerated patience. “If you were holding us hostage for the Star in the West, you would be a fool to tell us, or have this discussion at all. It’s clear that is not your intent, for a hundred reasons, not least, because you have clearly both been training us for years in the hope that if the worst happened, we’d be able to beat you.”

Maedhros looked alarmed. His eyes flickered briefly to Fëanor’s spirit where it lingered behind Elrond in the wood, before he met Elrond’s eyes. “Oh, what nonsense,” he said, lightly. And then, abandoning the conversation and turning away, “Are you going to play the harp after all, Elros, or shall I ask if there is anyone else who would like to play, since Maglor so emphatically wishes to be lazy?”

And Fëanor wondered when his eldest son had learned to distrust him so completely.

 

* * * * * 

On the third day, they heard voices in the distance, down in the valley below them, and the lowing of cattle. 

“Men!” Telutan said. “There was a way that ran north on this side of the mountains that was not heavily wooded. They could bring cattle and wagons that way.”

From the thin birchwoods of the hilltops at the feet of the Ered Luin, they found a place where they could look down and see the Men pass by. They were many thousands, marching in loosely ordered companies and bearing many banners. They wore leather coats set with rings, or no armour at all, and behind them came ox-drawn carts and herds of cattle being driven by men on foot with dogs. They moved slowly and there were so many of them that they filled the valley and after the first of them had turned away out of sight behind a steep hillside, there were still more coming up behind. 

“I don’t recognise most of those banners, do you?” Maedhros said to Maglor, as they watched. “Apart from the one at the front, of course, the wolf. That was Ulfang’s.”

“Morgoth has sent some of his pet Easterlings home, to bring back their friends and allies,” Maglor said. “I wonder if they have any idea what they are heading into... Well, we suspected it. At least now we do not have to scale Mount Rerir to confirm it.” 

 

* * * * * 

 

They came down at last from the hills to meet the wide dwarf-road that ran out from Belegost and Nogrod to the mysterious dwarf cities of the East. 

There they met a strong patrol of armoured Dwarves, marching through the mountain-pass from Belegost. Their task was to watch the road and check the walls of the pass into Beleriand for signs of orcs, in case the Enemy should try an attack unexpectedly from the east. 

Maedhros sent the wounded back to Belegost with them, but he led the rest south, still on the eastern side of the Ered Luin. They had another task to do here in the wild eastern lands, before they went back into the west.

They walked on for several days, moving much faster now, south through rolling green hills and wild woods where the primroses were coming into yellow flower in every glade and clearing. On into lowland woods filled with the scent of bluebells under the fresh green of the new beech-leaves. There was little sign of the Enemy here, so far from Angband, although twice they found signs of long-abandoned camps, piled with the bones of orcs. So far south, and east, their swords rarely flickered with the light that said servants of the Enemy were near. This land was not under the control of Morgoth, not yet. 

At last, they came down a long grassy slope, and could see in the distance a wide brown river. It ran south and west across a green and fertile land that lay along the river-shore. Here and there along the river there were small villages of low wooden houses, with pale roofs that shone in the sun. Across the river, the forest began again, fading away south into green distances. The trees were coming into full leaf here down by the river, and the sun was warm.

They came out of the trees, and made for the largest of the villages across the fields. As they approached, thickset shaggy dogs came out, first barking and then approaching with wagging tails to greet the Elves with wriggling delight. 

Their owners were close behind: stout strong-looking men and women with brown faces, wearing clothes made from well-tanned deerskins and carrying bows, with broad knives upon their belts. The men were bearded, almost like dwarves, and the women wore their dark hair in thick plaits. Their leader, a stocky man who wore a red gem around his neck that was clearly of Fëanorian design, hurried cheerfully to greet Maedhros. 

“Borthin!” Maedhros said, clasping the offered hand, “It’s good to see you again!”

“And to see you, my lord!” Borthin released Maedhros’s hand so that the others could shake it too. “We have had no more trouble with raiders since last you came to our aid, I am pleased to say, although we are keeping up the patrols.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Maedhros said. “This is my brother Maglor; I’ve spoken of him. These are our kinsmen, Elrond and Elros. They are half-Elven princes out of the West, descended from the Men and Elves who were our allies in the Great Battle. I think you know the others? Elros, Elrond, this is Borthin son of Ioreth, daughter of Iorin, who was the sister of Borthand the faithful.”

“Delighted!” Borthin said, shaking hands all round with great enthusiasm. “A star shines on us, isn’t that how you say it? Here are some of the people of my house: Heldfast, Held the Young, Borlass...This is Borfast the Steadfast, and this is Aleborn, he’s the headman of the next village... But I see you come in armour, are there enemies about? Should I sound the alarm, and call our people to arms?” 

“No, we are not expecting an attack. ” Maedhros reassured him. “We have seen no orcs for days, indeed. It is only that we came down from the North this time, and it is easier to wear armour than to carry it.” 

“How is the war going, my lord?” Borlass asked. She was a notably short and broad woman, wearing beads on strings around her strong arms, and a wide smile, with a small child hiding behind her skirt. 

“Too slowly for my taste, alas,” Maedhros replied. “But the Noldor and Vanyar hosts are holding the Enemy in battle. I do not think he will turn his attention this way soon, unless we are very unlucky. How does the building go?”

Borthin shook his head, his cheerful face suddenly fallen into embarrassed wrinkles. “I am sorry, lord. We could not get the beams in place. I was hoping that we might get help from the Dwarves to move them before you came by again. We have cut the timber and it’s all seasoned and ready, but to move such large pieces...”

“Let us go and have a look at it,” Maedhros said. “Among my people we have plenty of experience with moving wood and stone.”

 

* * * * * 

 

“You’re building a quay on the river?” Elrond said, some time later peering at the plans spread across the width of a tree-stump and then looking around at the wide brown waters of the river, sparkling in the afternoon sun. They had taken off their armour and left it in Borthin’s small wooden hall, which everyone seemed to find a welcome relief, for the day was warm: even Fëanor could feel the light and warmth washing through him. “Why? I didn’t see any ships?”

“We don’t build ships,” Borthin admitted. “Small boats, yes. For duck-hunting or fishing, no problem. We make those very well. I would venture to say you could not find a finer canoe than ours in Middle-earth! But you can bring them ashore anywhere. I understand that the sort of ships that the lord Maedhros speaks of cannot do that.”

“Well, not if we are going to load them,” Maedhros said. “But we are not expecting Borthin’s folk to build the ships. That is where I am hoping you may agree to help us, Elrond. Look, here at this map. You can see that this river flows west to the Sea. If you can persuade Círdan to send ships up the river, then we can send dragon-armour from Belegost directly to the Vanyar through Eglarest. We will not have to cross East Beleriand at all, or deal with the armies that are ranged all along the Sirion. Our enemy has no ships of his own, so this would be quite outside his reach. What do you think?”

Elros frowned at the map. “And the river is navigable all the way to the sea, is it? What about the tides? Does the map show the high or low tide mark?” 

Maedhros looked pleased. “I thought you’d be good at this.”

“Our hunters take boats down the river, almost to the Sea,” Borthin said, running a broad finger along the map. “They turn back where the banks become sand. There are no rapids downstream, and the river runs wide and deep. But I’m not sure how deep it needs to be.” 

“Elros and Elrond may know about that, I think,” Maedhros said. 

Elros gave Maedhros an amused look. “You do remember that we left the Havens when we were six, don’t you?” he said. “But very well. Let us have a proper look at this map.”

 

* * * * * 

“Down a little.” Maedhros called, “A little more. All right. It’s in place, you can let go!” 

Maglor, Carnil and ten of the people of Bór let the rope fall slack. Maglor stepped back, rubbing the sweat away from his eyes, and walked over to inspect the huge beam of timber they had just lifted into place on the river shore. 

“That doesn’t look as if it will ever move again”, he said to Maedhros. “Tell me it was the last one!” 

“It is the last one,” Maedhros said, staring at the plan. “Until Borthin and Saeldir get the others over here tomorrow, at any rate.” 

“That’s good,” Borfast said, stretching. “About time we took a break! ” He walked away upstream a little way to a place where a small stream came down to the river making a small sandy beach, and began to bathe his feet. The other Men of Bór followed him into the water. Borlass and a few of the children came down from the houses to join them. The children began splashing water at each other joyfully, squealing. 

Maglor looked at the plan over his brother’s shoulder, and groaned. “Would it not be easier to carry the armour piece by piece to the sea?” 

“We would have to carry it all ourselves,” Maedhros said. “Neither Dwarves with their ponies nor the people of Bór and their dog-carts can easily cross the many streams that join the Baranduin, unless we built bridges, which would be harder still. Then we’d have the problem of the fens. The small boats can’t carry enough weight. This is the easiest way.” 

“I don’t like your definition of easiest,” Maglor said darkly. 

“I’d offer to help, but...” Maedhros waved the silver hand innocently, to illustrate his inability to haul on a rope. 

“Very convenient! Though I think Borthin would be upset if you did.” Maglor threw himself down onto the grass next to Maedhros and closed his eyes. “He doesn’t seem too happy about me hauling ropes, let alone you doing it.”

“Borthin will preserve the last shreds of my princely dignity if it means he had to put up the entire quay himself,” Maedhros said, mock-solemnly. “Fortunately, this means that I have a jug of... whatever this is. Carnil! Put that rope down and come and have a drink. You’re making Maglor look feeble.”

Carnil laughed. “That will never do,” she said. She put the coiled rope out of the way, sat down gracefully on the sheep-cropped turf, and accepted a wooden cup. 

Maedhros said, “I did wonder though, if we should try to stop Elrond and Elros...” 

“Stop us doing what?” Elrond said cheerfully, climbing up the bank to flop down on the grass next to Maglor. He was shirtless and wearing only breeches, and his long dark hair was coming loose from the braid. 

“I get the impression that Men like their kings to be too dignified to dig holes in the mud,” Maedhros told him, handing him a cup. “And you two are getting very muddy. Is this likely to cause trouble if word of it gets back to the Edain on the Isle of Balar?”

“What, more trouble than accepting drinks from the House of Fëanor?” Elrond considered. “If anyone asks, I shall claim it is only my Elven ancestry that has led to me being covered in mud. I’m sure everyone will believe that without question.”

“Getting your hands dirty and carrying out backbreaking labour is in the finest tradition of the kings of the Noldor,” Maglor said, without opening his eyes. “You should have seen our father after a day in his workshop. I don’t see the appeal myself. I should have been born among the Sindar. They have a proper appreciation for a musician’s hands. I have a blister!”

“I weep for you,” Maedhros said, poking him with a foot, and then handing him a cup when he opened his eyes and sat up, blinking. 

“Anyway, Elros isn’t muddy any more,” Elrond said. “That’s what I came up to tell you. We’ve finished straightening the bank. He’s gone swimming.” 

“So he has,” Maglor said, looking down the river, where in the distance beyond the people who were paddling in the shallow water, a dark head was making a vee of ripples on the surface of the golden sunlit water. 

“That looks very cool and pleasant,” Carnil said, setting down her empty cup. “I think I’ll join him.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Maglor said, draining his cup and hauling himself to his feet with an effort. “It would be good to wash the sweat off. And perhaps cold water will help the blisters.”

Maedhros watched them walk along the bank, to the place where there was a gentle sandy shelf that folded down towards the water. Elros came swimming in to greet them. 

“Gil-galad says that Círdan will send a ship to try the passage of the Baranduin when next the tide is right. Perhaps a fortnight, he thinks,” Elrond said. 

“We won’t have the armour ready by then,” Maedhros said, and paused. “But you know that, of course: we have not had time to complete the revised patterns and get them made up... But they aren’t coming for that, are they? They’re coming for you and Elros.”

“Yes,” Elrond said. He looked down and picked a piece of drying mud off his leg. 

“Thank you for the warning. Maglor and I should leave this place, then. Do you think Gil-galad will kill Borthin and his people in revenge, if we are not here?” 

“No!” Elrond looked taken aback. “I’m sure that’s not...”

“Círdan is very level-headed, but Gil-galad...” 

“Gil-galad is not as reckless as you think he is,” Elrond said. “He doesn’t like you very much, and you can’t blame him for that. But for most of us, dislike doesn’t mean violence is inevitable.” 

“No. No, of course it doesn’t. Sorry.” Maedhros shook his head as if trying to clear it. 

“I thought perhaps...” Elrond trailed off uncertainly. Maedhros waited. 

“Elros and I thought... We thought that perhaps Elros should go to Balar with Círdan, to see how our people are doing there, and I should stay here in the east with you. For a while. Making dragon-armour for the Vanyar in the workshops of the Dwarves is a good idea. Everyone thinks so. But it needs someone here to talk to Círdan and Gil-galad and the hosts of Valinor as well as the dwarves.”

“It was only ever going to work if it could become your plan, not mine.” Maedhros said. “Even Círdan is hardly going to trust me.”

“So you think it would be best if I stayed?”

Maedhros looked surprised. “I thought you’d both want to go home. You could still coordinate things with the dwarves from Balar. Borthin knows you now, and so does Audur.”

“Balar isn’t our home,” Elrond said, a little awkwardly. “The Havens was our home, but it’s gone. Our parents are gone too, and... and it seems they can’t return. If we have a home now, it’s with you.”

Maedhros’s face twisted and his eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, be careful,” he said, almost in a whisper. “On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also... 

“Don’t follow us, Elrond! To evil end shall all things turn that we begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. So Mandos foretold, and every word was true.”

Elrond looked at the mud on his boots for a long moment. It had dried a pale colour, and was splitting into tiny cracks. “Didn’t you just say, it was only ever going to work as our plan, not yours? It’s my idea that I shall not go to Balar, not yours. I am not staying to follow you. Nor even Maglor, though he’s less terrifying than you are... It’s possible to be fond of people without following them, or even agreeing with them, you know.”

Maedhros blinked in surprise. “I suppose it is. I wish I’d worked that out when I was your age.” 

“Anyway,” Elrond said, looking at the swimmers in the river below, “Elros doesn’t think it will be like going home, either. But Gil-galad needs one of us on Balar, not both.” 

“Gil-galad has agreed to this? And Galadriel?”

“Do Thingol’s heirs require the permission of the Noldor to come and go in Middle-earth?” Elrond asked, with a raised eyebrow.

For a moment, Maedhros was taken aback, then he looked amused. “I’m sure that went down well with Galadriel.” 

“Gil-galad needs someone to lead the Edain; that is his main concern. He wanted both of us to go to Balar, but... I said one of us should stay here. He said: it would be wise to keep an eye on you, if I was sure I could do it without getting killed. But Galadriel told me to follow my heart.” 

“Did she really?” Maedhros said with an incredulity that Fëanor shared. “About staying with us? She has mellowed.”

“She said the Valar have told her she was a leader in the rebellion of the Noldor, and would be held responsible for it. I think it shook her.”

“With her father here, leading their host, after all her brothers were killed? That seems harsh. Galadriel’s no kinslayer.”

“Isn’t she? I didn’t like to ask.”

“Well, now you know not to... She walked across the Grinding Ice, too. I would have thought that would have been enough to excuse her from being included with the rest of us. Ah, the Valar can be strange.” 

Fëanor felt this was a significant understatement, but perhaps Maedhros felt it necessary to be circumspect in speaking to Elrond. 

“I’ll stay, then.”

“It would please Maglor,” Maedhros said. “Well, it pleases me too, I admit. I thought we would not see either of you again. But you should go. You should know people who are your own age.” He paused. “For that matter, you should know people who aren’t kinslayers.”

“That’s my choice, not yours. Anyway, I know Borthin’s people, and plenty of entirely blameless and upstanding dwarves.”

Maedhros smile had a wry edge to it. “You do. Well, as you say, Thingol’s heirs need no permission from me. Stay and keep an eye on us, or don’t, as you wish.” 

Elrond gave him a sideways smile, bright as the river under the sun. “I want to ask you something though,” he said. He got to his feet, and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “Can you try? Try not to assume defeat is inevitable and that you can’t do anything but go on killing and killing until the darkness takes you.  You said, before, that if you had been able to hope for aid, you might not have attacked the Havens.”

“It would have been madness to attack the Havens, if we had known that help might come at last from Valinor,” Maedhros said.  “But that does not change the fact we did it.”

“But if you had still had hope... I know it’s hard. But just... try. Maglor is trying.”

“Maglor is much better at hope than I am. He has never had to entirely let go of it.” Maedhros ran his finger along the silver cuff of his metal hand.

“Why not try? What do you have to lose?”

“Hope hurts more than despair,” Maedhros said, as one stating an obvious fact. “I learned that on Thangorodrim. When the sun first rose, and Fingolfin’s trumpets sounded before the gates of Angband and echoed on the mountain, I had hope. But they could not breach the gate, and they turned and went away and left me hanging on the mountain. That was the worst time. Each sunrise I tried not to hope that this would be the day Morgoth would relent and kill me... It was almost five years, from the sunrise, until Fingon came.”

“But he did come.”

“Yes... Since it is you who asks, I will try to hope.” He looked up and met Elrond’s eyes. “Don’t rely on my succeeding.”

“All right.” Elrond smiled again, pleased. Then he had a different thought. “They are running low on fresh water, on Balar, Gil-galad says. Elros thought we could begin moving some of the Edain to this side of the mountains; the children and the old men and women, at least... Do you think that would work?”

“I think you should ask Borthin. These are not my lands: it was Borthin’s great grandfather who made alliance with me and he paid dearly for it. Borthin is descended from him in the female line. I understand that means his line is considered a new one, but in any case, I have never asked Borthin for any oath.”

“Do you think Borthin sees it like that? You saved his people, last time the orcs attacked, didn’t you? He names himself, ‘Faithful’. ”

“That is an alarming thought... Very well, I am in favour, then. I must find out if Borthin can be persuaded to declare he is king in his own right. I’m loath to bring the Doom of Mandos down on him for no good reason. Perhaps you can offer him an alliance with the Edain?” 

“I expect so. Elros likes Borthin, too.” Elrond scratched a crust of mud from his elbow. “You are right, I am very muddy. I’m going to swim and wash the mud off. Are you coming?”

“You want me to come and swim in the river?” Maedhros said, incredulous.

“Why not? It’s a warm day. Maglor is swimming.”

“It is a warm day and there are orcs led by Balrog generals just the other side of the mountains, and armies of Men in alliance with Morgoth only a few days north of us.” Maedhros said. His hand wandered to his sword hilt, and he drew the sword just a little, to check if it shone. 

“You looked at that when I said Elros was in the water,” Elrond pointed out. “It wasn’t shining then, and still isn’t. Orcs don’t like sun, or water.” He paused, considering. ”The sword might be cumbersome in the water, but you could probably swim with a knife, if it would make you happier.” 

Maedhros laughed. It was a harsh laugh, but a real one, and Fëanor listening found his heart cheered by it. 

Maedhros got up, and began to undo the buckle of the strap that held his silver hand in place. “I shall see if I can manage without one.” 


	14. The Battle of the Twilight Pools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros, Maglor and Elrond patrol Ossiriand, Finarfin and his forces fight a battle, and Fëanor reflects on education and mortality.

Though the northern sky over Thargelion and East Beleriand was dark with the mirk of Angband, today, in what passed for spring in Ossiriand, dim light was filtering through the cloud.

Maedhros’s people riding down from Belegost had been helping their dwarven allies clear orcs from the slopes of Mount Dolmed yet again. Or at least, they had assisted against those that were above the ground, coming down on them on horseback like thunder, driving them shrieking into their holes. The dwarves needed no Elvish help with orcs underground, so the Noldor left them to finish those that had begun making tunnels in the mountainside, and rode south.

Maedhros had brought half his full strength, all that he could mount and arm. They still did not have enough trained and proven horses for the entire company, but in a few more years they would do. The stables of Belegost were full now, with far more tall warhorses than they had been designed to hold, and extra stables had been built.

The company reclaimed the dwarf-bridge that led over the river south into Ossiriand from a group of mountain-trolls that had set up camp near the river Ascar.  It was the third time they had cleared trolls from that same bridge. Then they crossed the Ascar, and later the Thalos and went on south, to the swift river Legolin.

It was rare, now, that the patrols south and west into Ossiriand encountered anyone but orcs and trolls: most of the Elves who had lived there in happier days were dead, enslaved, or had already fled east of the mountains. But Ossiriand, being far south, away from Angband, was not yet as dark as Thargelion. The Shepherds of the Trees who once had come to Beren’s aid against the Dwarves of Nogrod had fled the darkness, moving east across the mountains into the wide unknown lands beyond, but there were still a few Elves left, clinging on among the darkened woods, in the foothills of the Ered Luin where the sun peered over the mountains and in the far south where once Lúthien had lived, where still orcs were reluctant to walk.

The Green-elves did not speak to the Noldor, if they could avoid it; not since the attack on Doriath. But there were signs, sometimes, of where they had dug for roots, or cut the bark of trees to drink the sap. The Green-elves of Ossiriand did not eat the meat of birds or animals, and in happier days they had not needed to: the forests had provided honey, nuts and fruit in plenty.

“We’ll make a fire,” Maedhros said, raising his voice a little so the order would be heard. “It will attract eyes, and very likely worse things too, but we are here to make a point. We might as well make it brightly. Water the horses first, then make a fire on the hilltop. If we have to retreat into the woods, we will. But for now, we pitch our banners and put them where the fire will shine on them.”

“I take it we aren’t planning to sleep tonight then,” Elrond said. He was hunched a little on the horse’s back, and looked tired. It had been a long day already.

“Sleep if you need to,” Maglor said, dismounting and leading his horse down the riverbank to drink. “We’ll wake you when the attack comes.”

“If you can manage it, so can I,” Elrond said crossly. He slid down from his horse’s back.

Maglor opened his mouth and then closed it again, plainly thinking better of whatever he had had been going to say.

Elrond paused and looked apologetic. “Sorry. It’s just...Elros isn’t here. It feels strange. As if there is a space where he should be saying things and he’s not...” he gestured vaguely. “I’ll get used to it.”

“How are things on Balar?” Maglor asked, looking warily out over the darkened water with one hand on his sword hilt as his horse drank noisily. They had not seen any of the giant water-beasts in the rivers that came down from the Ered Luin, yet.

“Busy. Last time we spoke he was called away to deal with some problem about fish. The time before that, it was some argument over plumbing. I don’t think Elros knows any more about plumbing than I do.”

“Water engineering is another field where you should both have had at least a basic introduction,” Maglor said, looking guilty. “My father would be appalled.”   

Fëanor thought this a little unjust.  Water engineering was an important field, and Elrond and his brother had been very able children, but one could not learn every important field at once. When Maglor had been Elrond’s age, he would have been well able to design a fountain or mend a drainage system, but he had been nowhere near to Elrond’s match with a sword.

For that matter, Amrod and Amras had never built a fountain. Something of an oversight, but it was far too late to worry about it now. Eventually their grandparents had given up asking about it anyway. Possibly Maglor had not noticed: he had been away journeying with Maedhros around that time.  

But Maglor had never been a father, and as usual with Maglor, once a problem could not be ignored completely, it bothered him excessively.  Nerdanel had always said he got that from Fëanor, and probably it was true.

Now he was fretting about what Turgon might say.  Fëanor was inclined to think that if Turgon in the Halls of Mandos was thinking of his great-grandchildren at all, he was probably simply glad that they were still alive and not thralls of the Enemy.

“I’ve missed out so many things. I should have made a list!” Maglor said, which might have made sense, if he had thought of it ten years previously. “I‘ll ask Saeldir to take you through the basics when we are next in Belegost.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said, his eyes bright with laughter. “I’d hate to feel my education lacked something compared with a century or so of the finest teaching in Tirion, despite war, orcs and the Black Enemy of All the World.”  

Elrond had a good deal of common sense for one so young.  Perhaps it was part of the Mannish heritage that had seen him and his brother grow so swiftly in both mind and body.  

Men had turned out to be quite startlingly unlike what Fëanor had expected from them. He had expected power-hungry usurpers.  He had not expected them to look so much like his own people. Nor to look on Elves with such a disconcerting wistful longing, nor to have such a hunger to learn the languages of the Elves.  Nor to grow so swiftly weary of the world in body and mind and pass beyond it, as the House of Hador had, as the Men of Bór did.  

As perhaps Fëanor’s own mother wished to do... It was probably best not to let himself fall into thoughts about that again.  Look to the future, Nerdanel had said, long ago, and though the future now did not seem bright, it was still wiser to look forward than vainly back.  He wondered if Elrond would weary of the world and go elsewhere, and if he would be able to if he wished it. He did not seem weary yet, but he was still young, even by the measure of the brief years of Men.

Maglor grinned ruefully at Elrond. “I tried, at least!” he said. “Surely there must be people from Gondolin and Nargothrond left on Balar who can help Elros fill in the gaps?”

“I think that may have been the problem. Gondolin, Nargothrond, Doriath and Hithlum, all with different views on what approach is best.”

“Ah, I see! I’m sure he will tackle the dispute bravely and get them working together, with time. I see why Gil-galad wanted help. I imagine that a plumber from Doriath might not be eager to listen to the High King of the Noldor.”

“At least it’s not quite so crowded there, now that they have started moving people east to the Baranduin. And he seems to be enjoying it, but...” Elrond hesitated. “He wondered if you might come with me to the people of Bór, next time he comes there?”

Maglor’s face closed. “I know. He asked Maedhros too. Maedhros thinks it a bad idea.” He began to lead his horse up the hill. Elrond scrambled after him.

“Elros didn’t know when he agreed to leave that you were going to vanish into Ossiriand! Would it help if we told you that you must be there, instead of asking if you would?”

“It was no help to Fingon,” Maglor said flatly.

“But Fingon was at Alqualondë,” Elrond argued, encouraging his tired reluctant horse up the slope. “Anyway, you can’t blame the doom of the Noldor for everything. Give Morgoth some credit as an adversary, he was one of the Valar, after all.”

“If Maedhros agrees to it then I will follow him, of course,” Maglor said, tethering his horse to a stake. “ _I’m_ allowed to. But consider Elros’s position, even setting aside the doom of the Noldor. Elros is among friends on Balar. He will come to the Baranduin on a ship crewed by Círdan’s people.  Nobody will think well of him if he is seen to visit the sons of Fëanor.”

“But do you think it’s fair on him, when he wants to see you?” Elrond checked his horse’s feet carefully.

“I think you are the most argumentative of all hostages, and I would send you off at once to join Elros on Balar, if I thought there was any chance you would actually go!” Maglor said, half annoyed and half amused.

“You could tie me up and leave me by the Baranduin to be collected,” Elrond suggested cheerfully, beginning to rub the horse down.

Maglor had to laugh at that. “Do you think I could? I am not so confident,” he said, looking Elrond up and down. “You have become rather tall and strong. I might get hurt.”

“You’ll just have to put up with me, then,” Elrond said grinning.

* * * * *

 

They built a fire on the hilltop, where it would be visible right across the River Gelion, and set up the banners around it, wide-spaced to suggest greater numbers than they had. The silver stars of Fëanor glinted gold in the firelight, but they set the the banner that showed the niphredil flowers of Lúthien, for Elrond, in the centre.

Elros, on Balar, had begun to use the red spearheads of the House of Hador as his sign, but here in Ossiriand, the sign of Lúthien was more likely to be recognised, both by any Elves still lingering in the fading woods, and by the orcs of Morgoth. They were careful not to show the symbol publicly in Belegost, where the dwarves of Nogrod that Beren had slain had so many relatives, but here in the woods far from Nogrod and Belegost, it was a useful thing to carry.

The fire lit, they sat and waited for what would come, swords bare and shields close to hand, the horses tethered where they would be least at risk. But nothing happened.

“This is far too quiet,” Maglor said, fidgeting with his sword hilt. It had a loose wire on it he kept trying to tuck back into place. “There’s something wrong.”

“There’s always something wrong, this side of the mountains,” Maedhros said reasonably.

“Well, yes, of course. But to be precise; now and here, there’s something wrong. We’ve been up here for hours with a bright fire and banners you could see a league away even under all this murk. We’re showing the banner of Lúthien’s heirs, no less. We could not be more provocative, yet we’ve not drawn in so much as a goblin. I can’t believe they think we look too strong to tackle. Something is going on. What is it?”

Maedhros stepped a little away from the fire and looked out west over the valley of the Gelion, towards Beleriand. Nobody could see all the way across the wide miles of East Beleriand to the river Sirion, where Morgoth’s armies held Finarfin’s host from crossing, but usually, when they raided in this direction, flames and movement could be seen far away on the darkened plain. But not tonight. Beleriand might have lain at peace under a night of natural cloud, rather than the roils of smoke from Thangorodrim. Even Fëanor’s senses could detect little more than darkness.

“I hope it’s not...” Maedhros said, and stopped.

“What?” Maglor asked.

“I hope he’s not coming out to deal with Finarfin in person,” Maedhros said.

“Morgoth? Morgoth’s not brave enough to tackle a host that size. Is he?”

“I would have said not. Not unless he was forced to it. But you know, there have been rumours. And you are right. It is quiet.”

Elrond put his hand to his belt-pouch, and brought out the seeing stone that Maedhros had given him. Elros had taken the other to Balar with him, of course. “Shall we look?”

Maedhros looked down the dark hillside again, and at his sword, which showed only the faintest flicker of light along the edges. He looked at Fëanor’s spirit, out beyond the banners, as he had begun to do from time to time, though he did not speak.

Fëanor did not speak either. The living must not speak with the dead.  

Fëanor had known it since his father had explained it to him as a child. He had had to explain it in turn to each of his sons, as they grew old enough to learn about their grandmother.  

There had been seven children in Aman for whom death was not a distant and temporary theory, but a reality chosen and endured: a thing that was close and personal and permanent.  In all the long years of Fëanor’s life, his mother had never sent him any message.

He should not have spoken with Curufin, even in his dreams. It had done no good.

It still seemed hard, here on the other side of death.

Fëanor shook his head: he could do that, at least since Maedhros could not help but see him. He could not see any danger approaching either.

Maedhros shrugged and sheathed his sword. “Well, we are not doing anything useful standing here.” He sat down near the fire, pulled out the one seeing stone that was still his, and set it on the ground. Elrond set his stone next to it, and Fëanor drifted a little closer to look as Maedhros called the stones to life.  

The Vanyar host were camped on what had once been the Guarded Plain, north of Nargothrond. The seeing stones showed the camp, with its white banners under dark skies. The ground to the north of it was scarred with great burns, rent with deep ditches and pits, with the vast white bones of dragons strewn across it here and there. There was a sullen redness to the dark and heavy sky over Brethil, and warg-riders were attacking the guards on the northern border.

“Nothing unusual there,” Maedhros said. “Let us see if the stones will show us the host of the Noldor.”

The camp of the Noldor host spread both sides of the Andram Wall, north and south. Their first sight was of the southern camp, and that was as quiet as the camp of the Vanyar. But on the north side of the great hill-wall of the Andram, a desperate struggle was raging.

The northern flank of the camp bordered the place where the River Sirion spread out into wide swamps and fenlands, miles of them, filled with wide pools and low banks covered in tall reeds and groves of bog-willow.

It had been beautiful, once, filled with birds; the Twilight Pools of Sirion that shone in the starlight. It was not beautiful anymore.

The long ragged muddy edge where the broad waters came up to the drier land where the Noldor were encamped was filled with long low boats, beached everywhere across the mud, each with a savage dragon-head mounted at the bow. Around the boats, down into the mud and up through the Noldor camp, a savage and desperate battle was raging. Blood and mud were everywhere, and it was hard to tell who it was that was fighting lower on the shore, in the slime of the fens: all were covered in it.

“There’s Ulfang’s banner again,” Maglor said, frowning.

“Easterlings,” Maedhros said to Elrond. “That wolfshead sign, there on the biggest of the ships. That belongs to Lorgan’s people, the usurpers of Hithlum. They must have taken the boats down the Sirion to get past the Vanyar host. They have come up onto Finarfin’s northern flank to catch him by surprise.”

He moved a hand over the stones to direct them to look more towards the river, and now they could see the wide land-bridge across the river Sirion, and the towers that the sons of Fëanor had built there long ago, that now were held by Morgoth.

Out of the east, across the wide river, vast swarms of bats were whirling out of the darkened sky. The gates had opened, and out of them came a sortie of huge mountain-trolls, armed with monstrous stone clubs, and they were striding into the ranks of the Noldor, smashing them out of the way. Behind them, a great mass of heavily-armoured orcs armed with jagged swords came racing out to take advantage of the confusion they had caused.

“No Balrogs,” Maedhros said, considering. “That’s good news. And no sign of Morgoth himself, or his lieutenant Sauron, I am relieved to see.”

“Good news?” Elrond said, staring wide-eyed at the distant ghosts of desperate men and elves locked in combat.

“Finarfin will kill them all, eventually” Maedhros said, grimly confident. “See, they are closing the gates again, behind the orcs. They will not be going home. Their job is to do as much damage as possible to Finarfin’s host before they fall. The same goes for the Easterlings of Hithlum... although I suspect that the Easterlings don’t know it.”

“No, probably not, ” Maglor said. He saw Elrond’s questioning look and explained. “They have nowhere to retreat to. They are on the wrong side of the river and Finarfin’s host is between them and the Andram. I doubt they could take those boats back upstream against the current, even if they could get them launched again, and downstream, the river dives beneath the Andram Wall. They are all going to die.”

Maedhros nodded. “You can see they don’t have the numbers or the training to overcome a force that size. Look, they are already being pushed back into the water, on their west flank.”

“That’s horrific,” Elrond said, looking pale. “There are thousands of them. They aren’t orcs...”

“That’s war. They betrayed us, and enslaved your grandfather Tuor and his people,” Maedhros pointed out.

“Those men didn’t,” Elrond said. “Their grandfathers, their great-grandfathers... The Nirnaeth Arnoediad was almost eighty years ago. If they have come down from Hithlum, they were born there.”

“True. But I do not suppose Finarfin is concerned with that just at the moment.”

Maglor leaned forward, peering closely at the image. “Is that not Anairë, there by the tents?” he asked his brother. “I think it is, she is wearing Fingolfin’s colours...  They must have been taken by surprise, she has no helmet.  I had not realised she had come with Finarfin.  That is Galadriel with her, or I have never seen her fight.” Maedhros indicated the elf at Anairë’s side in the golden colours of Finarfin’s house, who was using a sword and shield with both expertise and enthusiasm.  “She had time to find a helmet.”

“ _She_ would. She’s been at this far longer than poor aunt Anairë... You know, I never would have taken Anairë for a fighter.”

“Those who were eager to fight came with us to begin with,” Maedhros pointed out. “I was puzzled how Finarfin had raised so many.  He must have brought almost everyone who was left in Tirion and all the country round about.”

“Anairë is battling valiantly,” Maglor observed. “But the Men are savage fighters! See, they have run through a whole company there on the left, and are trying to break through to join with the trolls. Will they make it?”

“I say not. They are fighting uphill and the footing is bad,” Maedhros said. “They are strong though, and tall, that will help them on that ground. Taller than Ulfang and his people were, from the look of it... I suppose they have mingled with those of the Edain that could not escape from Hithlum. Some of them are yellow-haired.”

Elrond said unhappily, “Finarfin will not give them the chance to surrender?”

“I would not,” Maedhros said. “Prisoners are a complication that can prove costly, and apparent surrender can be used to mount a counter-attack. Finarfin might. He won’t have dealt with many escaped thralls with minds broken by Morgoth. When you have dealt with those who can do nothing but follow his will, like a needle following a magnet in the dark, accepting a surrender begins to seem like too much risk.”

Elrond looked at him. “Your brothers took you back,” he observed.

“Well,” Maglor began, taking a deep breath but Maedhros leant over and nudged him, almost smiling.

“My brothers are well known to have been extremely foolish,” he said. “And one person is a different affair to thousands of unknown Easterlings.  I am not sure many would choose to surrender. Morgoth tells his servants that we cannot be trusted, and are expert in torment, and since he is both himself, they not unreasonably suppose us to be similar.”

He leant forward over the small clear vision above the stones. “They are being driven back down onto the mud now. And... Oh!  I did not know Anairë knew how to call light like that!  She has been taking lessons from the Vanyar.  She is working with Galadriel, I think, there’s something about the style....  A small revenge taken for Fingolfin, and we can see better what is happening. That is the third of the trolls down, but the orcs have got out into the barracks-lines... I am not sure Finarfin will get the chance to take many prisoners, even if he wished it. This is not a formal battle-line drawn up in order, it’s a surprise attack in darkness. A few of them might get away, if they can swim.”

“It seems unfair,” Elrond said. “They can’t help who their fathers are.”

“Their grandmothers in Hithlum could not help it either,” Maglor said. “I wonder if they hope this attack will succeed or fail? It must have been a hard life, for the women and children who were left behind to the Easterlings, with no help to call on.”

Maglor never spoke now of the Sindarin girl he had met at the Feast of Reuniting, who had been lost in battle. A minor entanglement, Fëanor had thought it, at the time, swiftly over and forgotten. Their marriage had been brief, and there had been no children.

But now her face shone in Maglor’s mind so clearly that Maedhros, at least, could see it. Even Elrond must have caught a glimpse of her, reflected in the surface of Maglor’s mind, for he reached out and touched Maglor’s shoulder tentatively.

Maglor had never found her body.

“At least we know why the east is so quiet tonight,” Elrond said, at last, after a long pause, when they watched the Easterlings fight and die under the blades of Finarfin’s people in silence.

“Morgoth is trying to reduce his enemy’s numbers,” Maedhros said. “Just as he did with ours. Now I wish again that Finarfin was more bold. But at least Finarfin can call for reinforcements, if it comes to it. I hope he does not! Our chance to take the Silmarils will be small enough if Morgoth is confronting Finarfin and Ingwion and their hosts. If he comes out to battle Tulkas, Champion of the Valar, there will be no hope for us.”

“It seems unlikely to come up,” Elrond said. “Finarfin’s people and my great-great-grandmother are doing well on their own.” He was trying very hard to sound unreservedly cheerful about it.

“They are. And they are giving us a night off in the process, which makes a welcome change.” Maedhros’s attempt at sounding cheerful was more convincing than Elrond’s. “They have been sitting there for years looking mournfully at the Andram Gate as if staring at it will eventually wear holes in it, after all. It will do them good to get some practice in.”

“We have never tried making holes in a gate by staring at it.” Maglor said and laughed, a little harshly. “It might work. Why did we never think of it? We should have tried it on the gates of Angband.”

 

* * * * *

As Maedhros had predicted, Finarfin had the victory, and it was a decisive one, with fewer losses than their Enemy might have hoped. Some few of the Easterlings had thrown down their weapons, once the orcs were all dead, and were taken prisoner after all.  That made Elrond smile in hope, and Maedhros too seemed cheered by it.

They sang as they rode back through the woods to Belegost, some of of Maglor’s songs from the long-ago victory of the Dagor Aglareb. A little group of Elves on horseback — laughably few compared with the forces that had followed Maedhros then, to the relief of Dorthonion, and to meet with Fingolfin’s armies out of Hithlum, when they had left their enemies slain upon the green fields of Ard-galen, under the very shadow of Thangorodrim.  

Fëanor would have sung with them, if he could have: Finarfin’s victory felt almost as if it were their own. When they came to the road that ran down towards Sarn Athrad, and saw an orc-troop marching south, on the other side of the river, Elrond caught Maedhros’s eye.

“Don’t you think they look as if they might cross the river?” Elrond suggested. In truth, the orcs had seen them and seemed disinclined to do anything of the kind. But they were within easy reach of the ford.

“It seems extremely likely,” Maedhros said, and there was a gleam in his eye. “Are you requesting aid on behalf of Ossiriand?”

“I think I am,” Elrond said, and laughed. “Or are you going to tell me it’s too dangerous for the Noldor to cross a river?” Maglor exclaimed in outrage, laughing back.

“I am not,” Maedhros said. “Where did you get the idea that I resemble my uncle Finarfin?” He pulled on his helmet, drew his sword, and urged his horse down the hill at a gallop, with the the others riding wild behind him.

They came to the ford and crashed across it, water flying from their horses’ feet, white in the gloom. If there was anything hiding in the waters of the Gelion this time, they crossed too swiftly for it to be aware of them. They fell upon the orcs in fury. The enemy had begun to run, but they were afoot, and could not hope to outrun the mounted, armoured elves.

Even so, it was not an unfair fight. The orcs were armoured too, and there were more of them, but as orcs will, they did not fight together as one, and would risk nothing to help each other. The Eldar killed fifteen before the rest got away, and Maedhros whistled the riders back before they could get too far from the ford.

* * * * *

  


“What will you do, if we win this war?” Elrond asked Maglor cheerfully, over the noon meal, back in Belegost.  “Would you stay in Middle-earth? It would be good to go over the mountains, perhaps, and explore all the way into the uttermost east.”

“I’ll think about it if it happens,” Maglor said, rather shortly. He pushed away his plate. “I think I shall go to bed. My leg hurts.” One of the orcs had nicked him on the thigh as it went down.

“Can I help?”

“Maedhros will help me if I need it, thank you. Don’t you have water engineering systems to look at with Saeldir?”

Elrond gave him a dubious look. “Water engineering systems? Really? You meant that?”

“Drainage and clean water are important, Elrond, ” Maglor said, tired.

“Well, I suppose so, but nobody builds cities any more.”

“You might, one day. I won’t get the chance, but you might. Please.” Elrond had spoken lightly, but Maglor sounded almost as if he was going to cry.

“All right! I’m going, I’m going... Have a good rest.” Elrond gave Maglor a worried look as he pushed back his chair and went off to find Saeldir.

 

* * * * *

 

Carnil was making a new pack, working the canvas with a curved needle and thin practiced fingers by the fire in the great hall when Elrond came and dropped a pile of papers onto a table and folded himself into a chair next to her.

“Is there something wrong with Maglor?” he asked her.  She was one of Maglor’s few remaining followers, owing her first allegiance to him, and only indirectly to Maedhros.  Not that that meant very much any more, but no doubt that was why Elrond had gone to her.

“Nothing more than the usual,” she said, and shrugged. “He was asleep when I looked in to see if he wanted anything, just now. He’ll be fine in the morning, I expect.”

“I didn’t mean to upset him. I thought, perhaps, thinking about something in the future other than Silmarils might help.” Elrond said, frowning. He shuffled the plans in front of him so that a rough diagram of Tirion’s aqueducts annotated in Saeldir’s confident hand-writing was on the top, and looked at it blankly.

“Too late for that, I fear.” Carnil wrapped the thread around neatly with practiced fingers, and cut it with a small knife.

“I can’t believe that,” Elrond said. He put down the pen and bit at his thumb instead. “How can it be too late? They are both alive still. The Valar have sent their hosts to help at last. It must be possible for them to heal. Or at least not get worse. There are enough orcs already.”

“They’ll never be what they were in Aman. Not after Doriath, and the Havens, above all.”

Elrond laughed without humour. “You can’t imagine I’ve forgotten that. I met all of you as murderers first, remember?”

“So you did.” Carnil said. “So why stay here? You should go to Balar with your brother. It’s where you belong. You need not trouble yourself about them and their Oath, there.”

“They are part of our family,” Elrond said sharply. “Elros’s and mine, no matter what. We can’t give up on them. We agreed that he would go to Balar, for Gil-galad and the Edain, and I would stay and try to keep them from their oath and the doom of the Noldor.”

“Whew,” Carnil said with surprised respect. “You got the short straw, there.”

“It was the long one, actually” Elrond told her. “Elros had to leave almost everyone he knew behind... I can’t abandon them to Morgoth and their oath. They’ll never not be murderers, but there is good left in them. It doesn’t have to be that everything worthwhile is in the past and lost beyond the Sea, no matter what the Eldar think.”

“And that’s the wisdom of Men, is it?” Carnil said looking doubtful.

“How would I know?” Elrond said. “I know nothing about the wisdom of Men.” He laughed suddenly, gesturing at the pile of plans. “And it seems I am not Noldor enough that I can understand a city drainage system either... But it seems to me that you can’t get out of a mess like this by lamenting the past, or trying to recreate it. I must press on, trying and hoping for some new way to open.”

“I never thought I’d think any of the sons of Fëanor lucky. Not since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad,” Carnil said a little wistfully. “But they are lucky in you.”

“I’m sorry, “ Elrond said, answering the thought and not the words. “You still have had no word, then?” Carnil’s wife in Valinor had been of the people of Finarfin, and had turned back with them to Tirion.

“I can feel she is there,” Carnil said unhappily. “It’s not so far to the Noldor host on the shores of Sirion. But nothing more than that she is there, and is alive. She doesn’t want a kinslaying wife, I expect. Who would? And I can’t decide if I want to beg for her forgiveness or hit her. She doesn’t understand. But then, how should she? I’ve been at war for so long... If I were new-come from Aman, and my lord had always made the wise and cautious choice, I too would not understand.”

“I don’t really understand either,” Elrond admitted. “But all I hear of Morgoth says that despair delights him, and he twists it to his own ends. Elros always says that neither Beren nor Lúthien would ever give up hope. I think he’s right.” He looked at Carnil, thoughtfully. “You knew the sons of Fëanor in Aman, didn’t you? What were they like?”

“I knew Maglor,” Carnil corrected him. “I only met the others later. I was a potter, not a lord.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought you were a soldier?”

“Not then. We did not have many soldiers, in Aman. No need for them, you see?”

“That seems so strange. But you knew Maglor?”

“A little, yes. I learned my trade in a village outside Tirion. I was apprenticed to my uncle. But I thought my pots were as good as anyone’s, and so I wrote to the lord Fëanor...”

“That sounds brave.”

“It was, a little — but it was the usual thing to do, to write to one of the House of Finwë. I was proud as Fëanor himself, and confident, and I wanted to set up a workshop in Tirion, and to do that, I needed a license from the King, and preferably, a patron. I wanted my patron to be the best. So I wrote, and he sent Maglor to see if the work was right.. I’m sorry, this is very dull.”  To Fëanor, it was less dull than amusing. It was true, he had been proud indeed, but he had not realised he had almost become a proverb for it.  

“It isn’t dull,” Elrond said, “It’s like hearing of a different world. Go on. Why did he send Maglor, in particular?”

“I don’t know. I think they all took a turn at it. They did all sorts of things. Water engineering too, I expect. The Tirion water systems were mostly designed by the King, their grandfather. There was a little plaque about it in the Square of the Fountains, I remember.”

“Were they? Oh, I see!” Elrond said, looking as if light had suddenly shone into darkness. “So what happened when Maglor came to see your work?”

“He liked it. He took a jug away to show his father. And so I got my license and my patron, as I’d hoped. But you wanted to know what he was like. Everyone in my village knew exactly who he was, both as prince and as a singer, of course. He was was very charming about that, and said all the right things to everyone. Very clever, very impressive, he was. They all were, or so the word went, brilliant, persuasive, proud... Maglor was all I’d expected. But then, when I had the workshop in Tirion and was getting ready to open, he came there quietly on his own, to make sure I had the things I needed.”

She folded the canvas over neatly and began stitching from the other side. “I was unloading boxes, and he helped us carry them up the steps. I was so embarrassed. It was nice of him, and not as if there was anyone else there to be impressed. He came by a couple of times after that. He’d have a cup of tea with us and talk about music, or art, or how making pots for practical use is like and unlike sculpture... And then he came to my shop, for the opening. I suppose that might have been his duty, but I didn’t know many people in Tirion, then, and I was grateful. He brought his friends, introduced me to them all, and bought a teapot. I sold so many teapots on the strength of that... But then all the House of Fëanor went off to Formenos. The next time I saw them after that was when the Darkness had fallen. And after that, not so much need for pottery, and far more need for soldiers. I don’t suppose that tells you much about why he took the Oath, though. Or what he did afterwards.”

“It tells me he was kind,” Elrond said thoughtfully. “That hasn’t changed.”

“He’s a good friend, and a lord that people will follow and die for too. Maedhros, as well,” Carnil said, matter-of-fact. “If they weren’t, they’d be dead already. There’s a reason that it’s those two and Celebrimbor that are left, and it certainly isn’t caution.”

“No,” Elrond agreed. He thought about it. “Did Maglor carry a harp with him everywhere, then?”

Carnil raised an eyebrow, surprised. “No. Not in those days. He only started that after Doriath. But he would have had many harps in Aman, of course, and the big concert harps are far too large to carry about easily.”

“Of course,” Elrond said. He had probably never seen a harp that was not small enough to carry at a run. He shuffled the plans again, sighed and started to make notes. Carnil went on stitching canvas with practiced skill, every movement economical and expert, leaving Fëanor, lingering unseen and thinking of Tirion.  They had marched away without even looking back.

 

* * *

 

**Painting of Carnil: in her workshop in Tirion, and then later in the forest of Taur-im-Duinath after the attack on the Havens of Sirion.**


	15. Dwarves of Yore Made Mighty Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News from Nevrast, and a battle in the Great War.

Fëanor was watching Maedhros practicing at swordplay with Telutan, deep in the autumn-fading elm-woods of Ossiriand. They were moving fast among the shadowed trees, ducking and diving between the trunks, when Elrond came back from his meeting with the Laiquendi. He waited at a distance until they had seen him and stopped running. 

“Any news?” Maedhros asked, putting up his sword, a little out of breath. 

“Nothing new from the Laiquendi,” Elrond told him. “Some werewolves came across the water at the dark of the moon, and the Laiquendi shot them, so nothing to worry about there. They are low on food again. I said we would try to arrange another lot of supplies from across the mountains.” 

Maedhros grimaced. “They still don’t want to move east?” Elrond shook his head. “Well, I suppose we must honour their tenacity. I wish there was a road that led down here though. If we could only bring a wagon or two through...”

“They wouldn’t consider it, you know that,” Elrond said. “And to be fair, a road would make them more vulnerable to attack.” 

“Pack-horses loaded with nuts again it is, then,” Maedhos said, sighing. 

Telutan winced. “I hate bringing horses across that pass!” he said. “One of these days we’re going to lose a horse on the narrow section. I hope it will only be the one... Warhorses are not bred for draft work in the mountains. If we only had some mules...”

“Well, yes, but we don’t,” Maedhros said. “Feel free to come up with another solution!” 

“Maybe we could do something with rope,” Telutan said thoughtfully. “Just to bring sacks across the narrow section of the path. The Laiquendi could pick them up on the other side, then. Or we could ask the dwarves to lend some ponies...” 

Elrond shook his head reluctantly. “The Laiquendi won’t have that... I’m not sure the dwarves would, either. The Laiquendi haven’t forgotten Thingol, and the dwarves haven’t forgotten what happened to the army of Nogrod at Sarn Athrad.” 

“Ropes, then.” Telutan said, resigned. He sheathed his sword. “I’ll draw up a plan,” 

“Well volunteered!” Maedhros said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You can tell Lanwion I authorised it.  Get Tautamion to build you a model for testing.”   He turned to Elrond. “Something new not from the Laiquendi, then?” 

“Only some news from Elros. He’s well, but he says that Círdan has fought a Balrog in the hills near Nevrast. He managed to get away from it and back to the sea, Elros says, and it would not risk coming near the waves.”

“I’m glad to hear he got away. How did that happen, then? I thought Círdan was on Balar, and the Vanyar still held all the coast?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise attack. They didn’t know the Balrog was there. There are orc-tunnels all through Nevrast now, apparently, so Círdan landed some of his people and the Edain from Balar in the Firth of Drengest to try to clear them out. The Balrog was waiting in the hills for them, and came down on them all fire and fury.”

“Whew!” Maedhros shook his head, setting red hair flying where it had come loose from the braid. “Is Círdan still in Nevrast, then?”

“No. The attack on Nevrast failed. The Balrogs did something to the hills — I’m not sure what — and the Edain and Círdan’s people were beaten back to the boats, and had to flee. Círdan was the last to escape, apparently. They are all back in Eglarest, now. They’re rebuilding it again.”

“Are they? Good old Círdan. I wonder how many times he’s rebuilt the place now? He’s another who doesn’t give up easily. He’s tough enough to give even a Balrog indigestion.” 

Elrond looked at him curiously. “Do you know him, then?”

“We were friends, a long time ago,when first we came to Middle-earth. When we first came ashore, the Falas was under siege, but Morgoth’s armies left it and came after us. Círdan was delighted to see us, at the time. And I used to see him from time to time in Hithlum, too when I was there taking counsel. I’m glad he’s still there, hanging on.”

“Elros is in Eglarest with Círdan at the moment.” Elrond said “Círdan was our father’s friend, too, or so he says. I don’t remember him... I think Círdan must have been on Balar when we were little.” 

“Was Elros in the attack on Nevrast?” 

Elrond nodded. “Of course; he led the Edain. They were only guarding the ships though, he didn’t see much action.”

Maedhros frowned. “I’m glad he’s leaving the Balrogs to Círdan, at least. When you tell Maglor, you might make sure you tell him Elros is all right before you mention the Balrog.” 

“I did that when I told you,” Elrond pointed out. 

“So you did. How very thoughtful.”

“I always was,” Elrond said, with a faint smile. “You’re thinking of Elros.” 

“Am I really?” Maedhros gave him a sceptical look. Then he looked speculatively down at the sword still in his left hand. “Do you want to fence? Telutan seems to have escaped to go and play with ropes and plans.” 

Elrond laughed. “I’m not surprised! You could let him win occasionally. ” 

“If I let people win all the time, there would be no incentive to try harder!” Maedhros told him. 

“But you always win, so nobody wants to fence with you! Oh all right, then. I suppose I need the practice. I’m not proud,” Elrond said, giving him a grin and taking off his cloak to hang it on a tree.

 

* * * * * 

 

That evening there was enough sky clear of Morgoth’s clouds that they could see the stars of Menelvagor the swordsman come up into the sky. They greeted him with the old song, and set the fire burning. Elrond lay back against a tree, looking up through the branches at the stars. 

“Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima,” he said softly, as if in greeting, after a while. 

Maedhros looked at him, eyebrows raised, and then up at the sky. “That is your _ father _ ?” 

“Yes. They set his ship to sail the sky.”

“With the Silmaril,” Maedhros said, and the Oath shuddered through his words. Fëanor tensed, suddenly alert. 

Elrond looked at Maedhros, frowning. “You knew that. Secure from all evil, Maglor said.” 

“I did,” Maglor said, sitting forward with his eyes on his brother’s face. “And you agreed with me.”

“I hadn’t realised they had made him carry it personally,” Maedhros said, with something of an effort. 

Elrond said, looking little wary now, “They gave him the choice. He wanted to take the path of Men and leave the world, but my mother chose the Elves. He stayed for her, and that was the task they set him. Or so I hear from the lord Finarfin.” 

“And I thought our family was complicated already,” Maedhros said, lightly enough. “But no, cousin Turgon’s grandson got to choose whether to leave the world, and decided to stay and become a star instead.”

“Jealous?” Maglor asked him. 

Maedhros managed a smile in reply. “Not of becoming a star, anyway. It will make a fine song though.”

“It’s good to see him, even far off, “ Elrond said. 

Maedhros gave him a sympathetic look. “It is. Even for us. A sign of hope.” He glanced quickly over at his father’s spirit, cautiously, but Fëanor was willing to follow his lead on this, for now, at least. “Our father’s work too, up there where all can see its glory.” 

Maglor leaned back against a tree-trunk, relaxed again, and began to run his fingers idly across his harp in the starlight.

 

* * * * * 

 

The Sons of Fëanor were, of course, not invited to the war-council of Belegost. It was not a thing for outsiders, and in any case, officially, none of the Eldar spoke the language. Fëanor was reasonably confident that Maedhros and several of the smiths had picked up a certain amount of it by now, as he had himself. But in diplomatic terms, it was not a language for Elves, and so polite incomprehension was the only appropriate response. 

They heard the voices echoing from the great assembly-halls afterwards though, as the decision was announced to all the people of Belegost. Nobody could have missed the singing. The deep voices ringing out fierce and terrible, the sound of drums and trumpets echoing through the long halls, travelling up the shafts from the mines up to the towers and windows that let out high upon the cold mountainside. It was as if the entire mountain was singing.

By the time Audur came to officially notify the Elvish allies of the decision, everyone knew that Belegost would march out to war with Morgoth once again. 

The first strike would be against Mount Rerir. The mountain that had been Caranthir’s stronghold was now overrun with orcs, and they had made their foul tunnels all through the land around. 

“It’s like an anthill,” Audur said, looking in disgust at the map, marked in many places with crosses where Maglor’s scouts, riding by at speed, had found entrances made by the orcs. Scored under the map were the marks that showed where the dwarf-listeners had found signs of orc-runs deep underground.

“It’s a mess,” Maedhros said. “Caranthir would be appalled. What do you want us to do?”

“We’re planning to hit them underground,” Audur said. “What can you do to keep them from running up and out? We want them distracted, so that when we come on them from below, the surprise will be total. I don’t want any of them getting away, but if I send an army overland, they will see us coming and have time to call for aid.”

Maedhros looked over at his brother, and then he glanced at Elrond. “I think we can probably manage that,” Maedhros said. “We could raise the lake. Would that do?”

Audur frowned up at him. “Maybe, if you’re careful about it. I don’t want my people fighting in flooded tunnels.”

“It would be a risk. I take it you don’t want the mountain to come down, either?” Maedhros said, staring at the map. 

“If we wanted that, we wouldn’t need your help,” Audur said, rolling her eyes. 

“No, I suppose not. Not water then, and not rock.” Maedhros said. “What does that leave? Speed, I suppose, or fire. But Morgoth’s servants have little fear of fire, and if there are more dragons it will be no good at all... Speed then, and, I suppose, terror. Use the horses. Maglor, I think this one is yours. ”

“Light?” Elrond suggested. 

“None of us are Vanyar?” Maedhos said. “What are you thinking of?” 

“Starlight,” Elrond said. “Starlight on the lake?” 

“Oh!” Maedhros smiled, a dangerous smile. “That would certainly get them looking up... All right. I’ll take the horses, then, and see to the terror. You and Maglor can look up at the stars.” 

“I assume you Elves all know what you are talking about,” Audur said, looking more than a little exasperated. “Can I tell our people that you will arrange some sort of feint?” 

“Yes, indeed,” Maedhros told her.

 

* * * * * 

Thargelion was quiet and dark around them, sharp-smelling and gloomy in the mirk. Lake Helevorn lay dark and quiet to the south, and the half-ruined fortress on the mountain, dark and ragged around the edges, was lit with flames. 

They had crept around the lake as silently as they could, but the time for secrecy was almost over now. The only sound was the faint noise of the horses shifting from time to time. Somewhere far underground, the army of Belegost was, presumably, on the move, but you would never know it from here. Out there above them on the mountain, orcs were moving, but they were too far away to hear anything less than a shout. 

“Ready?” A whisper from Maedhros, high on horseback. Most of the Eldar were mounted, but Elrond and Maglor were on foot, and Telutan who had been born to this land was with them. 

Maglor’s eyes in the dark, glinting still with an echo of the light of the Trees of Valinor, as he gave the signal. 

The ripple of harpsong, calling, yearning, looking back into the deep waters of memory. 

Elrond’s voice, calling out a prayer to Elbereth, changing to a chant that spoke to the lake of nights long past, when the stars had hung reflected in the deep dark water. 

And the long dark memory of the lake answered with starlight. Elvish starlight from the years when the stars were young and fierce, and neither sun nor moon had come to eclipse their radiance. 

Maglor’s voice wove through it, calling on the last light of Telperion, carried by the Moon. Telutan’s voice singing in the Sindarin dialect that they had spoken, once, on the shores of Helevorn, singing of sunlight rising out of the Ered Luin, and shining golden on Mount Rerir. 

Elrond’s voice again, raised high above the others, calling out the final words to set the spell;

“Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” 

The murky, fouled and stinking waters of Lake Helevorn were gone, and the lake remembered all its long years of starlight. And it shone. Brighter, and brighter, silver against the black of the mountainside, a thousand years of stars that glittered with the light of the fallen Trees of Valinor, lighting all the great vale of Helevorn with a light that was a terror to all the servants of the darkness. 

And on the mountain, the shrieking of orcs that had thought their master’s darkness unbreakable, as Maedhros and his riders swept up to them like a memory of Oromë himself, their horns calling. Fëanor himself at the rear, an unseen burning terror to the servants of Morgoth. There were not many of them, of course. A tiny remnant, who could have been overwhelmed in a moment, if the orcs had stopped for thought, or if they had had a commander with the will to fight. The wild riders could not have overcome a determined resistance. But there was very little of that. The orcs turned in terror and fled into their tunnels. 

And then, answering the horns of the Eldar on the mountain-side, a deep muffled note, voices, horns and drums, calling from deep underground. 

The Dwarves of Belegost were coming up.

In the end, they did bring down the mountain. Or at least, the Dwarves did. Maedhros and his people had done their work by then, and had retreated back to the west side of the lake, where the light had dwindled and was almost lost already, galloping down again from the hills to form a circle around Maglor, Elrond and Telutan, who had all three thrown in all they had to give. Elrond and Telutan were unable to stand, and Maglor was not in much better shape. 

The forces of Belegost marched out of the mountains into Thargelion behind them, carrying great lamps and singing, and as the last of them got clear away from the mountain-tunnels, they chanted the words that brought the tunnels and the old fortress above them down behind them in a great slow rumbling slide that buried the slain orcs and the remaining bones of the people of Thargelion all together. The falling mountain ran down southward into the lake itself, and changed its shape forever. 

The Noldor had lost twenty of their people, in that first wild attack, and three horses too. The Dwarves had lost far more, in their savage underground battle against the orcs, but of course there had been so many more of them to begin with. 

But this time all the dead would be honoured in full. This time, there were no hasty burials or songs sung half under the breath, for they had all the force of Belegost behind them. All the dead were carried back across Thargelion with full honours by the host of Belegost, marching inexorable across the darkened land, singing in honour of Mahal the Maker, and of Elbereth of the stars. 

The dwarves would be laid in stone tombs, deep underground, where they could be visited and remembered by all their kin. But they carried the Noldor through the pass and buried them in the green lower slopes of the Ered Luin, where the sun would touch on the grass that lay over them in the morning. 

They set no stone over their dead. Instead, they planted a tree, a holly tree, tough, evergreen and persistent, the kind of tree that even if it is felled, sends shoots up from the roots, to remember them by. 

Maedhros had expected a swift counter-attack. But when the next major attack came, it was not directed at the East at all. Morgoth sent dragons out of what had been Doriath against the Vanyar host and to the Noldor on the rivershore of Sirion, too. The Vanyar were hard put to it to hold their position: the lightstorm against the darkened skies could be seen leagues away. 

“I am starting to wonder if Morgoth is taking us seriously,” Maedhros said, in puzzlement to Audur, one evening when she came to share news and a meal with the Elves in the Hall of Heliodor. 

“Perhaps we should have tried to occupy Thargelion, after all,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “If I had known he would not strike back straight away, I’d have been tempted to set up fortifications.” 

“From the sound of what he did in Nevrast, fortifications will not hold him. He’s using the power of the earth, as he did in the Dagor Bragollach, to bring down hills. I would not wish to face his rivers of fire again,” Maglor said dourly. 

“I remember hearing of it. I suppose that if he is doing that, then there is no safety underground,” Audur said sadly looking around at the long stone hall with its carven walls. “Alas for Gabilgathol, my beloved city. I fear for her.”

“She has stood longer than any of the cities of our people in Middle-earth,” Maedhros said, with sympathy. “Mahal must be proud of her and her people. And if she falls, we will never forget her.”

“Your people won’t.” Audur said, turning her gold arm-ring so the yellow stone caught the firelight. “But there are not many of you left. I am not sure that even our own cousins understand why we took our stand: why we went out against the enemy, why we fought the Dragon. I feel old. When I am dead, and my nephews too, I wonder who will remember Belegost, and what they’ll say of us?” 

Then she shook her head, and laughed. “I must be more wary of mixing with Elves; it makes me melancholy! We have planned our retreat with care, if we must do it, then we’ll find new mountains and build new cities. And in the meanwhile, we’ll hit our Enemy where it hurts.”

“There is nothing more cheering than Dwarvish determination!” Maedhros said “I’ll strive to follow your example. But I can’t help wondering what the Enemy is up to.”


	16. The Fall of Luindirien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a map for this chapter, but it contains a spoiler so I've put it at the end.

It was a year before Morgoth took his revenge for the attack on Mount Rerir and the recapture of Thargelion, and when he did, it came in a way that nobody had expected. 

Fëanor and his sons, with an escort of one quarter of their remaining people, were east of the Ered Luin again, down near the Baranduin among the trees that were starting to turn golden as the last of the summer faded. There was now a thriving settlement of the Edain and Sindar out of Beleriand there, in the wide flat lands of small woods and sandy pasture that stretched out to the south and west of the land of the people of Bór. 

They had taken another shipment of the armour for the Vanyar, loaded on dwarf-ponies, down to a place in the beechwoods where they could camp and send a messenger to Borthin. 

Usually the dwarves took the armour this way now, but the army of Belegost had taken heavy losses recently, in an attack across the river into East Beleriand. Belegost had paid a high price for it, and so Maedhros had offered to take over guard duty on the Vanyar armour, at least for this one trip until the wounded of Belegost had had some time to heal. 

They did not go near the Edain, or into Borthin’s village. Círdan’s ships might be there, and contact with either the Edain or Círdan’s people might lead to a confrontation that would benefit nobody but Morgoth. Instead they set up a temporary camp in the hills.

“And you’re going to be here when I come back, are you?” Elrond asked, with a dubious look down from his horse at Maedhros standing among the grey trunks of beech-trees, under leaves almost the colour of his hair. 

“I am sending Eärrindë and Nahtanion with you,” Maedhros pointed out. “The three of you should be able to get back to Belegost together safely, even if we have to move before you get back and you can’t find us. We may have to, if we see any of the Edain coming this way, but I hope we won’t: I’d like to get this armour safely to the quay, not leave it in a wood.” He hesitated for a moment. “I’m not intending to leave you here, unless you want to stay. But if I send any other messenger than you, there’s a good chance it will cause trouble.”

“I suppose so. I’ll see you later, then.”

“No rush!” Maglor said. “We don’t mind waiting. It’s pleasant to be under blue skies for a change.”

Elrond nodded, and rode off, with Eärrindë and Nahtanion following him on their own horses, wearing gear from which the Fëanorian star had been carefully removed. 

They waited for three days in the beechwood for them to return, letting the horses and ponies graze on the hills above the wood where the tall beeches gave way to hazel scrub and long grass. On the fourth morning, there was still no sign of them so Maglor suggested riding down the valley a little way to look out towards the villages in the lowlands below. 

They came out of the woods, down to the rough road that wound through the hills from Belegost to the river, and stopped in shock. Ahead of them, to the south across the low-lying riverlands where the Edain villages lay, a desperate ragged, running fight was going on. It was hard to pick out exactly what was going on, but there were wolfshead banners down there. Maedhros swore, and turned his horse at speed to head back to the wood to collect his people. He had brought only thirty-five of them. It was a long time since there had been any major threat so far south and east, and he had left the majority of his small force in Belegost, too far away to reach in a hurry.

“How do we handle this?” Maglor asked as they rode back down together, staring down at the struggle below. “If we come down on the Edain unannounced they may well turn on us. There are Sindar from the Havens living there, Elros said.” 

“I know. We’ll just have to hope that Elrond is there and can explain us,” Maedhros said, grimly. “You can’t touch his mind? I have just tried.” 

Maglor shook his head. “No. But it’s not as if we were close by blood: I always find it hard. If he’s fighting, I wouldn’t expect to be able to.”  Maglor’s art had always been with words, not thoughts. 

“I didn’t bring his banners. I didn’t think we’d need them... We’ll just have to try to look bigger than we are and hope they don’t recognise us. Can you sing us up the illusion of an army?”

Maglor blinked. “I can try, if you want,” he said reluctantly. “But you know I can’t do that and fight too.”

“And we’ll need your sword. Thirty-seven of us. Thirty-seven... There must be over a thousand of Morgoth’s Men down there that I can see, and they will have reinforcements, no doubt. ”

“Well, the Edain can fight. Borthin’s people, too. But most of the Edain fighters will be in the west with Elros, of course. Raise the river?” 

“If the Baranduin was in a mood for feeling helpful and the situation down there was suitable, I’m sure Elrond would have done that already... Fog. Everyone here can at least raise a mist. If they can’t see us coming, they can’t count us. Let’s try and panic them.”

“Good idea,” Maglor said, pulling out the harp from its leather sling. 

It took what seemed a painful length of time to call up the river-mist, even with all thirty-seven of them and Fëanor working on it. Maglor was quickest. He wove mist from music with a kind of tense concentrated fury. Once the mist was over the river, they could not see what was happening down there any more, and that made it all the harder to wait and work to build the mist. It did not take long, but it felt like weeks. 

But at last the fog was built, thick and white and wet hiding the land all around in a heavy veil, so that they could barely see one another. 

Maedhros said the word to call the wind they would need to carry the mist with them, and they rode out, at a canter to begin with, then as they came down into the wide sandy lowland meadows, they broke into a gallop, hoping that the ground was clear and the horses would not stumble, the mist blowing with them, beading on their hair, soaking everything. 

As they rode, Fëanor shaped the fog. It was easy to shape wind-blown fog: it almost had the form of running people through it, anyway. This was the kind of game he could play almost without thinking about it, weaving fog into shapes of running horses, of the armies of the Noldor as they had been when they marched out from Aman in the darkness after Alqualondë. He could feel Maedhros doing the same thing as they moved, and hear Maglor singing shapes into it under his breath, though he had put the harp away and drawn his sword. 

And then they were into the back of the attacking Men, striking them down, and fading back swiftly into the mist again, leaving them striking wildly at a force that seemed to take no injury, for it was only mist. 

Then back again, another swift strike, another retreat, before their enemies could work out what was fog and what was real. 

They hit them three times when the opposition began to waver and to run. Maedhros whistled the Noldor back, clearly cautious that they not come through Morgoth’s Men and end up fighting the wrong people. It was hard to see who was who in the mist. 

Then, suddenly, the light faded, and Fëanor felt a great power strike against the mist, and the wind that Maedhros had called to move it. Fëanor still had his art woven through that mist, as his sons did. The counterblow hit him like a blow in the face, a fierce cold of the far North, wild and terrible. You could hear the boughs of the trees along the river cracking as the cold bit into them. Maedhros, riding just in front of Fëanor, reeled as it hit him, and his horse was hard put to it to keep his rider in his seat. 

The fog fell as snowflakes and was gone as if it had never been, revealing overhead the black clouds that Morgoth boiled forth from Thangorodrim. Under them in the suddenly dimmer light, they could see ahead a strong force of Edain and the Borthin’s people. Breaking off from them into a retreat towards the river, between the Edain and the little group of mounted Noldor, were the army of Easterlings.

But nobody was looking at the Easterlings any more. High above them, up on a clifftop of an outthrust arm of the Ered Luin, a golden figure stood, shining against the darkening sky. Fëanor stared at it. The cold strength of it felt horribly familiar. The dark clouds folded around it as if in welcome. It lifted its arms, and the ground began to shake around them. Someone among the Edain was screaming, and then the cliffs began to fall, slowly, but with a terrible inevitability. Dust billowed into the air. 

And then, suddenly, everyone was running, north and west, away from the collapsing mountain, up into the hills that still stood strong. And as they ran, a great deep rumbling came behind them, deeper even than the falling mountain. Looking back over the desperately running people, Fëanor’s sight could just make out a white line across the distant horizon, a white line that roared. 

Maedhros slowed his horse once they were well clear of the falling cliffs, and the others followed him, letting the men and women on foot stream past them up the hillside. There were animals running with them too, dogs, goats and sheep and horses, and even a small herd of cattle lowing in panic, horns tossing wild-eyed. 

The Easterlings must have found another path: the fleeing people were mostly Edain, with a few elves running with them, Sindar from their clothing and their hair. There were a few of Borthin’s people too, shorter, broader and browner than the tall Edain. 

A more ordered group came into sight, moving with haste, but with less panic. The Edain had formed a rear-guard, though surely no living enemy could be coming behind through the rockfall. 

With them, there was Elrond at last, on foot and sword in hand, with Nahtanion beside him. “Keep going!” he called to Maedhros, as soon as he saw him, running on. “Higher up!” 

Maedhros turned his horse and they followed, up into the hills. Behind them the rumbling grew. “What is that?” he asked Elrond, leaning down across the horse’s neck. 

“Ulmo.” Elrond answered, breathing hard as he ran. “He’s coming.” 

Up into the hills, up away from the swirling dark clouds into thin birch-woods where the sunlight came through, until they stopped at last upon a green hilltop, and looked out upon the great green wave that came cresting slowly in across the low-lying lands, with gulls crying over it and the wind blowing fierce and free above it, blowing Morgoth’s clouds away. The golden figure on the mountaintop turned to flee.

The wave smashed into the mountains to the south with a great roar and a smell of the sea, and one by one, each mountain shivered and with a vast echoing rumble, it fell. 

The black clouds had gone, though there was still an odd dark cast to the northern sky, but on the hilltop, the sun was shining on the grass, and made a bright path out across the sea, which now came up almost to the foot of the hill upon which they stood. It was roiling, thick with dust and stone, but the sunlight sparkled on the surface. 

The crowds of people and the animals who had run ahead were scattered through the knots of silver-barked birch trees. Most of them had thrown themselves down upon the grass to catch their breath. 

Maedhros’s people had come up last, behind the rest, walking the horses, once they were clear of the water. Most of the people who had escaped the wave were further up the mountain, but just in front of them, a small group of the Edain stood looking out from the hillside across the strange new sea. One of them turned back to look at them. It was Elros. 

Maedhros glanced quickly around, and for a moment Fëanor thought he would give the command to leave. But if he was going to, Elros pre-empted him. He spoke briefly to one of the Men, and then came scrambling down the hillside towards them to tangle a hand in the mane of Maedhros’s horse. Maedhros gave in and dismounted, and the others followed. Elros embraced Maglor, and then Maedhros too, to his obvious surprise and Fëanor’s private amusement. 

“Was that you then, with the fog?” Elros asked, once the greetings had been sorted out. 

“It was,” Maglor said, smiling, “We thought Elrond had finally found trouble too large for him to handle on his own. I might have known you would be in the middle of it!” 

“I thought Morgoth had brought an army of wraiths down on us! So did the Easterlings. You should have seen their faces when you turned out to be attacking them, not us. But is this all of you?”

“I fear so,” Maedhros said. “I think we have lost eleven, unless there is anyone who has taken a different path and is elsewhere on the mountain. I hope so. I can’t think that anyone badly wounded will have got away, not from the wave.”

“No,” Elrond said, unhappily. “It came too fast. I don’t think anyone who couldn’t run can have escaped...”

“I have asked Gundor to start the count of my men.” Elros told them. “We can hope that there will be others who got away.”

“Borthin is dead,” Elrond said, in something of a rush, as if he was trying to get it over with as quickly as he could. “I was with him when we first saw the Easterlings. He led out his people to try to help Elros, but he was killed before we could join our forces.”

Maedhros grimaced. “That is sad news. Faithful he was, indeed, to the end, and a worthy heir of Bór’s line.”

Elros said, looking distressed, “Things have not gone as we had hoped. Ulmo warned us something was coming and that he would strike at it when it came, but we did not have much time. We were able to move most of the old people and the children up to higher ground, near Borthin’s villages, but I did not expect Morgoth’s lieutenant here, east of the mountains and so far south! And then the Easterlings came down on us and cut us off when we were trying to move the livestock.”

“So you think the people of Bór have survived?” Maedhros asked. 

“They should be safe, unless something else has gone wrong. Ulmo told me the wave would not reach the upper Baranduin.”

“That’s good to hear. I was fearing they had all been washed away.” Maedhros looked out and down at the sea sighing far below. “The whole coast must have changed shape.” 

"I see what you meant, when you said once that the Valar were too powerful for this war,” Elros said wryly. 

“Dangerous allies,” Maedhros agreed. “Speaking of which, we should move on, before someone notices us. Elrond, Nahtanion, where are your horses?”

“I hope they got away,” Elrond said. “We left them grazing when we went with Borthin. Three horses in a force on foot seemed cumbersome.” 

“Very well. We have four riderless horses with us, you had best each take one of them for now.” He turned back to his horse, ready to mount. 

Elros frowned. “The Havens was twenty-one years ago, Maedhros. Most of my men were children. And you’ve just come to our aid, after all. Let’s at least treat any wounded we still have and search the hills together for those who may be missing, before you vanish again?” 

Maedhros looked down at him, frowning. “Are you sure? It will not do your reputation much good, if we are recognised.”

Elros gave him a long level look. “I can look after my own reputation, thank you, without your help. Come on. I’ll guarantee your safety. And it will be so much easier to look for those who are missing, if I have horsemen to help.”

Maglor smiled. “Very pragmatic,” he said, looking at Maedhros. “Can we take a few days break from working for the Dwarves, and serve the Edain instead?”

“I can’t offer you what you want in return,” Elros said to Maedhros. “But I still don’t believe that should be your only priority.” 

“You think we should try to make amends.” Maedhros gave him a quizzical look. “Very well then. For a few days, if you wish, we are at your service... I see you have a new sword.” 

Elros looked down at the sword-hilt by his hip, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “It was Thingol's sword. Gil-galad gave it to me,” he said. “I think he was a little disappointed that I already had one, when I got there. He was so very sure you’d kept us in a coal-cellar for years or something along those lines.  He gave me Barahir’s ring too, look, they found it in the rubble...  He so very much wanted to give me kingly gifts. Which reminds me, Elrond, you should speak with him. He’ll be wondering what has happened.” 

“Poor Gil-galad.” Maedhros said. “It can’t be easy being High King of the scraps of Noldor left in Middle-earth, with Finarfin here.”

Elros raised his eyebrows. “Your view of Gil-galad has changed.” 

Maedhros looked a little embarrassed. “You said he wanted to give you gifts. I have just remembered how Fingon had to pack him off from Hithlum to live with Círdan, after the Dagor Bragollach. He didn’t want to go. I’m sure Círdan was kind enough to him, but still... Circumstances mean we can’t be friends, but that is all my fault, not his. I forgot how young he is.  Most of what he said was true too. I should have been kinder, when he was angry with me.” 

“The least of the things you should have done,” Elros told him. Then he grinned at Maedhros confidentially. “I do have Narsil safe still.  If I’m honest, your brother’s sword is better balanced than this, for me at least. I'm not as tall as Thingol!  But I couldn’t tell him that.”

“I should hope not! Shall we arrange search parties?”

“Yes. Let me just check with my men who we are missing and what the tally of wounded is.”

“I’ll try to speak with Gil-galad now. If he is waiting for word, he will be by his seeing stone, I hope, and I can speak with him straight away,” Elrond said as Elros hurried back to his men. He looked over at Nahtanion, waiting with the others. “Do you think the horses...?”

“I’m more worried about Eärrindë,” Nahtanion said gloomily. “She was right behind me, and then I looked around and she wasn’t. I think the horses will have found their own way to higher ground. But I’ll go and call for them now.”

“We’ll search for her,” Maedhros said. “She may have reached the hills before the sea came.”

 

* * * * * 

 

The searchers found Eärrindë the next day, by the shore, walking silent and wary in company with a little knot of Edain and a handful of Círdan’s Teleri, and very relieved to see her companions. One of the eleven Noldor missing had been saved by his horse, who found its way to the familiar scent and sound of the others as they came riding back up to the small temporary camp near the larger one that the Edain had made, bringing his injured rider with him. 

Another, Ecetion, came walking up to the camp on the morning of the third day, quite uninjured and delighted to discover that his horse was safe, having followed the riders after having panicked and thrown his rider. Their reunion was a delight to see, though Ecetion swore that this would be the last time he would ride Windfoot into battle. He clearly was not suited to it. 

But eight were lost, and after twelve days of searching, they had to assume them gone for good. One of them was Lanwion, who had been a weaver in Tirion, renowned for images woven in fine silk. Long ago, Lanwion had been a friend of Fëanor’s mother. 

He had made the transition seamlessly from outstanding craftsman to able guard captain, had been one of Fëanor’s own people, and had only not been beside him at the last because he had been badly wounded in the Battle Under Stars, and had to be carried from the field unconscious, with his left arm hacked through at the elbow.   He had been there steadfast and true when Maedhros had returned from Thangorodrim, a living reassurance that there was no insurmountable obstacle to a missing hand, and had followed him to Himring. 

Lanwion had seemed almost as much a fixture as Maedhros himself. It was strange to be without him, and although it felt a little treacherous to mourn a single person when so many had been lost, Fëanor could not help it. 

For a very long time, it had been Lanwion’s task to redistribute duties after they had lost people to a battle. This time it was Lanwion’s own duties that must be shared out. Maedhros and Maglor split most of his work between them. There were no longer enough of their people that there was any need to have a captain of the guard to report to the sons of Fëanor.

Elros was constantly busy, making arrangements for the Edain and Sindar who had been settled around the lower Baranduin and now had escaped to the hills, to move north and east, along the old dwarf-road that led from Nogrod and Belegost towards the mysterious and fabled dwarf-strongholds of the Misty Mountains to rebuild their villages there. With luck, they would be far enough from Angband that they would not be attacked again.

There was no sign of the Easterlings at all, and after none of the scouting parties had reported any sight or sign of them, Maedhros and Elros agreed that they must have been overwhelmed by the great wave.

“One less thing to worry about, anyway,” Elros said, when he appeared, a little unexpectedly, by Elrond’s side at the Fëanorian fire that evening when the sky had deepened to a velvet blue and the first stars were pricking into view. “I wonder if it’s too much to hope that Morgoth’s lieutenant has gone the same way.” 

“Ulmo has not told you?” Maglor asked, looking from Elros to Elrond. 

Elros shook his head. Elrond made a face. “Not in any way that I can make sense of, anyway. He sent me a dream. It was confusing. Dark waves, flame, mountains falling, our father’s star, and the sound of a harp.”

“He spoke to me directly, before the wave,” Elros said. “That’s why I was here, not on Balar or up at the Falas. But I’m still not entirely sure I understood him. It was... overwhelming.” 

“The Valar are often hard to understand,” Maedhros said, with what Fëanor felt was monumental understatement. He poked at the fire with a stick. 

“Well, I hope he won’t need to intervene on this side of the mountains again,” Elros said with a sigh. “We had them all set for the winter, and now the survivors are going to have to build new homes with the winter coming on. And supplies are short. We’ve lost most of this year’s harvest to the sea.” 

Maedhros laughed shortly. “Elros. The Valar are your allies in war! Ask Ulmo for supplies for your villages. He won’t be short of fish. Finarfin will send you builders, if you ask him, and Ingwion will no doubt send singers who can call sweet fruit from trees in midwinter.”

“Oh!” Elros said. He grinned at Maedhros. “Now I feel foolish.”

“You aren’t scratching a living in the Taur-im-Duinath any more,” Maedhros said. 

“No. Life has got so much more complicated than that.” 

Maglor laughed. “If you are missing it, I am sure we can find some spiders webs for you to set fire to.” 

“I can honestly say I am not missing the giant spiders,” Elros told him, laughing back. “I wonder how much of the Taur-im-Duinath is left? We will have to have new maps made.” 

“You seem to be doing very well with the Edain, especially since you had to start off not knowing any of them,” Maedhros told him. “I’m impressed with your organisation of them, truly.” 

Elros suddenly looked much younger, and quite delighted. “Gil-galad helped me a lot. I would have been lost without him. And Gundor is a marvel.” He looked over at his brother. “I sometimes wish there were two of me, though. The Doriathrim mostly look to Círdan, but they come to me if he tells them something they don’t like. Which is often: Balar is very unlike Doriath, I’m told.” 

“And you want to push the Doriathrim off to me instead?” Elrond said, eyebrows raised. “You make it sound so inviting. I think I prefer Belegost.” 

“Bah,” Elros said cheerfully. “Foiled again. I’d forgotten that you always see through my cunning plans.” 

Maglor took out his harp. “Since you are visiting us, you should choose the song,” he said. “Or would you rather play?” 

“No! I don’t get to hear you play any more. I should take the chance while I have it. There’s nobody who comes close on Balar. Sing... sing the one about Finrod and Bëor’s first meeting. Your version, not the one from Dorthonion.”

“Finrod! He’d laugh that you asked me for that one. Well, I hope he would... Is Daeron of Doriath not on Balar?” Maglor said, settling the harp carefully between his knees. “I heard him sing a few times. He’s good. Better than I am, or so I have been told.”

Maedhros made a choked noise of amusement. “Don’t believe a word of it,” he told them. “Either that Daeron was better, or, much more, that Maglor believes it.” 

“Well, he’s definitely not on Balar,” Elros said. “I would have noticed. There isn’t space on Balar to overlook anyone, let alone a singer. If he’s still alive, he must have gone east.” 

 

* * * * * 

 

Two days later, in the first red morning light, Fëanor under the thin shadow of birch-trees was watching Maedhros look out south across the wide new sea which hissed and sparkled below the hillside. It was starting to make new beaches for itself where the cliffs had fallen, though the water was still clouded with soil. 

Maglor came up and tapped his brother cheerfully on the shoulder. “Have we finished searching the shoreline? What’s next?”

“We should go back north,” Maedhros said, abruptly. 

“We have only been here a few days,” Maglor pointed out frowning. “I don’t think Morgoth will be missing us yet.”

“None the less.”

Fëanor looked at his eldest son with some concern. The Oath was coiling thick around him. Maglor, as usual, seemed somehow to manage not to notice it. Maedhros was clearly uncomfortable about the way it pulled at him, and so Fëanor reached out and pulled it back around himself instead. Maedhros gave his father’s spirit a miserably unhappy look, though it did have gratitude in it too. 

“What’s the matter?” Maglor asked him.

“I found myself dreaming of Eärendil, and the Star in the West,” Maedhros admitted, in a low voice. 

Maglor winced. “Even here?”

“The war has reached beyond the mountains,” Maedhros said, and shrugged. 

“North, then,” Maglor said, and sighed. “I’ll tell Elros we are leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said, almost helplessly. “I can leave you and Elrond here and go back to Belegost. That should be far enough. I hope.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maglor said. “Elrond can stay if he wants to.  But we will do this together.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> [See Map Larger](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bunn/5531459/662093/662093_original.jpg)  
>  The area marked with wavy green lines is the area that was flooded in this chapter. The area around the southern Baranduin, apart from the mountains, was largely marshy and low-lying, running down to wide areas of dune and saltmarsh (hence the reason why it was not possible, in Chapter 13 : East of the Mountains, to carry the armour manufactured in Belegost to the Sea: it would have been a very long journey over land that had never been settled permanently, was marshy and very treacherous. The scale is not perfect, but gives some idea how the land fits together. Of course, between the First Age and the Third Age when we see Hobbits living along (what is left of) the river Baranduin, Numenor has fallen (resulting in tidal waves hitting Lindon) and the Flat World was rendered Round, so considerable changes in the landscape are only to be expected. 
> 
> Luindirien is an alternative name for the Ered Luin, used here because I thought to state the name gave away what was going to happen.


	17. The Dead of Ossiriand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly about Elf Ghosts, Elrond, Maglor and the Oath.

Several years later, in the autumn of the year, Ossiriand was losing the ragged leaves that had struggled into life despite Morgoth’s glooms that stretched across the sky from the north, and the sharp rain that tasted always of sulphur.

Morgoth’s armies were still ranged mostly along the Sirion, but he had not turned much attention to Ossiriand, and regular patrols led by Maedhros and Maglor, supported by those Laiquendi who Elrond had managed to speak with, had kept the land largely clear of spiders and of wolves. The Laiquendi would not ride forth to open war, but they were prepared to provide information, and sometimes aid in an ambush or provide archers, as long as the aid was given under the banner of Lúthien. 

They had killed werewolves already on this patrol, the previous night, and now they had set up the banners again as the day faded, their bright colours in the firelight a lure and goad to any of Morgoth’s creatures walking in Ossiriand. 

The night went on, quiet, the horses shifting a little, the guards walking from time to time around the fire on the hilltop. Elrond sat with his head on his knees, at least half-asleep. At last there was a shift, almost imperceptible, a change of air that meant, high above the reek, the dawn was coming. 

Something else had come with it. Darker than the darkness, cold, silent, it was watching them. Fëanor moved across the hill, wondering whether to leave the hilltop to confront it. 

None of the Elves on the hilltop had seen it yet, though from their sudden tension, it was clear that they could feel something on the lower slopes. Fëanor looked at Maedhros, and found Maedhros looking back, his eyes catching the firelight. 

“What do you think it is?” Maglor asked his brother, quietly. 

“Only one of the dead, I think. One of Sauron’s servants, perhaps.” Maglor reached for the harp, which was usually the quickest way to send the dead, ensorcelled things that roamed Beleriand away, but Maedhros raised a hand. “Wait,” he said. “It is alone. Let us see if there is anything we can learn from it.”

He went down the hill a few paces, sword drawn. Behind him, Elrond got to his feet, and Maglor held the harp ready as the other Noldor stood alert, swords in their hands. 

Fëanor could see it well enough. It had been an elf, once, before it had died. One of those who had never seen the light of the Trees, for its spirit was shadowy, but it was also wrapped around with the darker stain of Morgoth. It had been one with a great power: a king, very likely. It stood there, dark against the night, wearing only heavy chains that looked more or less like iron. But looking at them closely, Fëanor could see that they had been forged from shadow and dark word and deed, and held in place with runes. He was sickened to see that the runes were of his own design. 

The chains held the spirit, agonisingly, partly in the living world. It could move, but only as the master of its chains allowed it. 

Maedhros stopped well before he reached it, and said a word of protection, which echoed uncomfortably through the hillside, jarring Fëanor backwards. 

“Why are you here?” Maedhros asked it. 

His voice gave it power, Fëanor saw, uneasily. It swayed forward a little and spoke, not mind to mind but with a voice of breath and sound that it stole from Maedhros. 

“Why here, why are you here...” it said, and Maedhros stepped back from the darkness and the misery carried in the echo of his own voice. 

“Who is your master? Who commands you? Morgoth, or Gorthaur the cruel? Is he here?”

“Master commands you. My master. Gorthaur.” It hissed the name as if saying it was painful. 

“Go!” Maedhros told it, putting strength into his voice, but it took his art, and threw it back at him, beginning to form its own words in Maedhros’s voice now. 

“Go! Here is mine. You shall not be here. Here is  _ mine _ .”

Maedhros frowned at it. “Who are you? What is your name?” He gave it an inflection that should have commanded obedience, but it had no effect. 

“You shall go from here. Here is mine,” it repeated, and its voice was like the creaking of a great tree bending in a storm. 

“We shall not,” Maedhros said steadily. “This is not your land. This is Ossiriand of the green-elves, under the protection of the Sons of Fëanor and the children of Lúthien of Doriath, and you shall not have it. ”

“Ossiriand,” it said, and there was a note of longing in its stolen voice that was terrible to hear. “Ossiriand is mine.” Behind it in the dark, there was the sound of wind in trees. 

“No!” Maedhros said, and said a word of command. It rocked backwards, but the chains took the impact and it came on. 

Fëanor moved in front of his son and struck at it with his sword. The chains rang. If he had had time, he might have analysed that note and found the key to the runes that held the chains in place and anchored the spirit in the world, but there was no time. It struck at him with the shackle on its wrist, and there was a strength behind the blow that pushed him back. No dead spirit alone should command such power. It was calling on something else. 

Fëanor’s attack had given Maedhros time to retreat back up the hill to the fire. Maglor had begun to make the song that should have sent a dead spirit wandering away confused and lost. It had no effect. 

Behind it, Fëanor’s keen sight could see shadowy trees moving, their nearer branches illuminated by the fire, twisted and clawlike, hooked against the dark sky. Darkness ran between them, and they whispered in their own language words that Fëanor could not understand, but he could feel the hatred in them: hatred for fire, for steel blades and all things that were not trees. 

The Noldor had torches blazing now, and made a ring of fire on the hilltop, their bare swords shining. Maedhros, standing by the fire, was clearly considering setting fire in the approaching trees. It would be difficult to do, for the trees were elms, imbued with the essence of water, and they would resist flame with all their being. And even if he could, would the walking trees flee fire, or would they continue their attack, blazing? 

Maglor changed his song. He was calling to the trees now, singing to them of summers of sleep; green leaves under blue skies. Their creaking, clawing advance slowed, but the dead king walked on up the hill in his chains. 

Then Elrond’s voice called out, in the Sindarin of Doriath: “Be _ still _ !” 

There was a power in the words that shook the hillside, and sent the fire flaming high. It echoed through the woods. And the dead king and the walking trees were still. 

The light was growing. Although the sky overhead was still dark, along the line of the mountains, a thin line of brilliant red light outlined the peaks, brightening moment by moment to a clear gold. Maglor’s harp sang through the sudden stillness, telling of bright dew on shining leaves in the silent morning of the world. 

The dead king turned his head, as if he had heard a call from behind him, and then, without any visible movement, he was not there any more. 

Quietly, Elrond crumpled forward, and it was only because Telutan caught him that he did not fall into the fire. 

* * * * * 

 

Elrond lay as if stunned until midday. As soon as he had opened his eyes and had managed to sit up, Maedhros gave the order to move again.

“The trees may be sleeping, but we cannot wait for nightfall here. We’ll move towards the mountains. Eärrindë, you are lightest. You must ride double with Elrond and make sure he does not fall.”

Elrond was very pale. “I can ride on my own,” he said. 

Maedhros looked at him carefully for a moment, and shook his head. “No. We need to move at least three leagues before the light goes, and we may come under attack again. You are weary now: you will be spent by the time we can stop again. ”

“Come,” Eärrindë said, offering him a hand to help Elrond to his feet, and then steadying him as he staggered. “I cannot do what you did. Let me help.” 

* * * * * 

 

Up in the foothills of the Ered Luin, the river Legolin was a narrow strip of silver, set about with rocks and gravel, but shallow and easily forded. They crossed the running water, and made a camp high on the western slope between Legolin and the first of the steep streams that ran down to join the young Brilthor, among the birch trees. They did not set out banners this time, and although they risked a fire, for the nights were still cold here so high in the hills, they built it in a shallow dell among rocks where the light would not show far afield. Elrond huddled in a blanket near the fire and fell asleep almost as soon as he had eaten a bite and drunk a cup of water. 

“Will he be all right?” Eärrindë asked Maglor quietly. 

“I hope so,” Maglor told her, distressed. “I hope it is only that he has overreached his strength and needs to sleep. But who knows? He is not like us. There is a part of him that is frail and mortal, a part that is Eldar, and another part that is made of song and wears his body only as we wear clothes! His parents must know how to balance those unlike elements, but I don’t. And I don’t know how I could tell Elros...”

“Stop fretting. You are almost as tired as he is,” Maedhros told him. “So am I. That chained thing was strong.” 

“It listened to him, ” Eärrindë observed.

“Yes. I think I can guess a name for it, from that. I think it may be the Green-elf king, the one who died at Amon Ereb, before the sun rose. Denethor, the songs call him, don’t they?” 

“Yes. Denethor, son of Lenwë, only king of the Laiquendi: they never chose another... You think it listened to Elrond as Thingol’s heir then?” Maglor asked “Denethor was under Thingol’s protection.”

“Denethor owed Thingol allegiance, for what good it did him... If that was Denethor, then he must have been trapped before he could flee to the halls of Mandos.” Maedhros put his hand inside the armour at his neck, and eased it where it weighed on his shoulder. “But it did obey. There is still something left that remembers. Perhaps Sauron had to leave something of what he was, so that it would be able to call on the strength of Ossiriand.” 

“That is how it called the trees.” Maglor said, making a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “If Sauron has held him all these years... The poor wretch.”

“Yes. Rest,” Maedhros told him. “I’ll wake you at midnight.”

“Should you not sleep too, my lord?” Eärrindë asked Maedhros cautiously. “We have never been attacked this high up in the hills.” 

“Later,” Maedhros said. “I have something I need to do first.” He stood, and went to speak quietly to several of the Noldor, rearranging the watches so that there would be several in each watch old enough that they had followed Fëanor from Valinor, and still held the memory of the light of the Trees in their eyes. It gave them an advantage over the younger ones, when it came to dealing with the dead. 

Then Maedhros walked away from the fire, away from the cautious watchers sitting with weapons to hand, and those whose turn it was to sleep, and slipped behind a rock. He turned to his father and looked straight at him. 

“Father,” he said, and his face was very grim. 

_ Maedhros, _ Fëanor replied, opening his mind so that his son could hear him. It was a risk, of course, but they were far from Angband. Maedhros had not opened his mind to his father, and although that might have been caution, Fëanor knew that it was not only that.  _ Is this wise? The living should not speak with the dead.  _

Maedhros said bitterly “I had to give up doing what seemed wise, or just, or fair, long ago. Now I do what I must. I’d ask you not to speak with Maglor though, if I thought you’d listen.”

_ I did not speak with you,  _ Fëanor said, amused at this lack of logic from his eldest son. It was, he found, very pleasant to be spoken to, and to speak back, despite the lack of warmth in Maedhros’s voice. It was lonely, being dead, and moving unspeaking and unseen among the living. 

“All the same, if I must turn to necromancy, I’d prefer he didn’t follow.” 

_ Necromancy? _

“Well, what else is it? Sauron would be proud of me. But I have no choice.” Maedhros’s voice was so miserable that Fëanor could not be angry with him, not while he was running his fingers around the cuff of his metal hand. If Fëanor had only been swifter, or more resolute about Thangorodrim... But he had not been. And now of all his sons, only two were left. Even to avenge his own father and Morgoth’s theft, Fëanor thought, even in the heart of his anger and grief, he should not have left Maedhros to suffer on the mountain. If he had thought harder on it, he would have found a way; Fingon had. And now the anger was burned almost to ash, and nothing was left but the grief. 

_ Maglor does not see me _ . Fëanor reassured his son.  _ His eyes move past me. I do not think he wishes to see, and I am not sure if he could, even if he would. But I promise I will not speak with him.  _

“Good.” Maedhros rubbed at his eyes. “I need your help with this dead king of Green-elves, father. He has no form, so cannot be killed. The strength to banish him is not in me, or in Maglor, not with the power of the land behind him and a Necromancer holding his chains.” 

_ Nor is there such strength in me. You saw me strike at him, and how little effect it had.  _

“I don’t expect you to drive him off, but you can aid me. I have no-one left here with the skill to break the runes that make the chains, not without touching them. If you can find a way to do that, I think Elrond can send him home.”

_ You’d set the boy against him again? You think he has that strength? _

“I’d not set him against a creature that has Sauron’s power to call on — of course not! Elrond is not Lúthien. But loose the chains, and that poor creature is only a dead king of the Moriquendi, no matter what has been done to him. Even in enchanted chains, Elrond could hold him in place until his master called him back, and without them... Elrond will want to free him.  It would take a weapon from our Enemy, and I believe it can be done.”

_ Let me consider. _

Fëanor walked back in memory, to look at the dead spirit, and the runes upon its chains. It was a fascinating problem. The runes had been set by a master and made words in a language that he did not know. It offended him, both in its structure, and in its existence. 

He considered the note that had rung out from the chains as he had struck them, and ran through the runes again. They reminded him of the cords that had held him while Fingolfin had fought. They had in some ways functioned similarly, and he had spent considerable time considering them, ensuring that he could not be so easily held again. 

Ah, there it was. The master-word was set on the collar around the dead king’s neck. It was cunningly wrought, with no loose ends that could be unwound, no levers that could be turned without a key... unless... 

Of course. How foolish! To make something so polished, yet with such a weakness! 

Perhaps the chains had been made first and only later had their master chosen who was to wear them. Surely he would not have made such a mistake if all the task had been done in one. Who had the chains been made for? Fëanor wondered, suddenly, if they had been made for him. If he had not broken free from Morgoth’s servant... 

But no, they would not have held him. Sauron had over-refined his design, had added flourishes of malice, small barbs to torment the wearer of the chains. That had left the spell open to be its own undoing. It was sloppy work, once you examined it closely. This would be easy.

Fëanor laughed, and left his memories behind. Maedhros was waiting for him patiently, leaning in the shadow of a tall rockface with his sword in his hand. 

_ I have some words of power for you _ , he said to Maedhros.  _ They must be said by a living voice. You must simply ensure the dead king repeats them. _

“Simply?” Maedhros’s voice was sharp and a little incredulous. 

_ He spoke with your voice before. He will again. The runes have been folded in upon themselves until they cannot be unlocked from without except by their creator, but since the creature can steal a voice, it is possible to use the concept of ...  _

Maedhros shifted minutely in the shadow of the rock. It occurred to Fëanor that his son had ridden for days without sleep, and had fought both with the sword and with all his arts. 

_ You don’t need to know this. The words are...  _

“I don’t need ...?” Maedhros suddenly looked tense, alert and suspicious. Fëanor pushed his senses out in all directions, looking for danger, but could see nothing. 

_ What is it?   _ Fëanor asked, ready to strike. 

“I am wondering if you are indeed Fëanor, as I had thought, or another of the Enemy’s traps,” Maedhros said coolly. “My father did not tell me that I had no need to know.” 

_ Really Maedhros? My mind is open. You can see who I am, do not be foolish.  _

Maedhros regarded him with narrowed eyes, suspicious and distrustful, and did not reach out to him. 

_ When you were only a little taller than my knee, I made you a clockwork bird that sang, because you were unhappy that the birds in the apple tree had flown away. _

“Morgoth spent years in Valinor,” Maedhros said flatly, moving backwards over the rocky ground, his sword pointed directly at Fëanor. 

_ Never in my house!  _ Fëanor remembered that exhaustion could affect the living mind, and deliberately calmed the flame of his spirit.  _ I do not think Morgoth occupied himself taking note of children’s toys in Tirion _ , he said, more patiently.  _ The acquisition of knowledge for its own sake is always worthwhile _ .  _ But consider: you have long ages to devote to learning and the practice of the arts, but staying alive is also important. You have managed it; I have not. You may continue to manage it, if you sleep. And so, I suggest that another time would be better suited for a detailed study of the Enemy’s use of runes and their modes of operation in relation to the imprisonment of dead spirits. I am of course happy to give you an introduction to the matter if it is of interest to you, but it seems your most immediate need is for a tool that will do the work at hand. _

Maedhros gave him a look that was equal parts exhaustion and incredulity. “That is more convincing,” he said, and although he still did not open his own mind, he dropped the tip of his sword. “Perhaps, if I can banish this thing, I will edge infinitesimally closer to a Silmaril. Or at least the Oath will stop goading me for a while. I would settle for that. ”

_ I have listened to your thoughts upon our Oath, and the Curse of Mandos. _

“Yes, I have noticed you listening,” Maedhros said coolly. 

_ I did not speak. I did not intervene.  _

“I noticed that too.  It made me wonder if you  _ could _ still speak.  It did not seem like you to stay silent on that matter.”

_ I judged you were correct, when you said that it did not bind us to honour, as I had intended, but only to the Silmarils. I should not have made it so it could drive us against children.  _

“You should not have made it so it could drive us against our own kin,” Maedhros said bitterly.  “If you had counted our cousins as kin, then perhaps I could have believed we did not need to attack the Havens. I should have stood against you then.  I should never have waited till Losgar. I have looked back so many times since and seen the moment when I should have spoken.”

_ I had not thought our kin would choose to hold them from us _ .

“You did not think of them as kin at all. And yet they marched across the Ice to avenge Grandfather.”

_ Fingon came to your aid, and in return you gave him a crown. _

“I gave his father a crown.  It was a crown you never wanted, and nor did Fingon. Nor, to do him justice, did Fingolfin.  Not until it was him or you, and when you burned the ships at Losgar, you made sure it could only be him.”

_ You would have made a better king than either of us,  _  Fëanor said, partly because it was true, but perhaps also because Maedhros looked so tired and miserable.  Not that the praise seemed to comfort him. 

“Is that my father’s voice I hear, or the lies of the Enemy, urging division even now? Fingolfin was the only king that we could have, and no-one could say he did not give his all to it. Fingon was more than worthy to succeed him. Yet still Grandfather’s death is unavenged, and we are further now from the Silmarils than ever.”

_ You have your grandfather’s talent and more, and what is more, you had the patience to survive. Dead kings are little help to their people: I can speak with some authority to that.  But if you desire justice for Fingolfin, I can tell you that he took his revenge.  _

Maedhros narrowed his eyes, exhausted and suspicious.  “Fingolfin died.” he said flatly. 

_ He gave our Enemy seven bitter wounds.  That is more than any of the Eldar have done: more than the Ainur have done. He should be honoured for it.  _

Maedhros blinked. Then he sat down rather heavily upon a rock.  His sword was still in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten it.  “I can see no reason why the Enemy could possibly want to tell me that,” he said.  “But I am more surprised than I can say that my father should do so.”

_ I have never been dishonest.  _

“No.  You never were.  But... Fingolfin wounded Morgoth seven times before he died?  Seven? I didn’t know that.  _ Nobody _ knows that, save Morgoth and his legions. Nobody saw the fight. Only the enemy’s black blood, and the body, afterwards.”

_ I saw the fight. I was unable to come to his aid, _ Fëanor said, bitterly.  It still galled him to admit it.  But it would be neither true nor fair to hide the facts, and if there was one thing left to him to lean on, it was that truth was stronger than the Lie _.  _

_ Morgoth came out to meet him in single combat, and my brother shone like a star against him. Three times he was beaten to his knees, three times he rose again. He wounded our Enemy for the last time in the foot, even as he fell.  Tell Elrond; his kin should know of it. _

He thought about that for a moment.   _ Our kin should know of it _ , he said.  _ You were right about that.  It was a fight more than worthy of your grandfather’s memory, and I was proud of him. It was hasty of me to spurn Fingolfin’s help, and hasty to assume that proud words could only come from an enemy, and not from a brother. I did tell him that, afterwards, before he went away...  _

_ Maedhros,  will you not accept these words I have found for you and then rest? You asked me for them.  Whether they will bring us closer to my Silmarils, I cannot say. But they might at least strike a blow against the Enemy, and it seems I have some catching up to do. _

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Maedhros said, looking noticeably surprised.  “Very well then. Give me these words. I’ll trust to Elrond’s luck. Not mine.  Mine ran out long ago.” 

 

* * * * * 

Three days later, they dismounted again at the hill that looked out over the River Gelion. The trees around the hill were not noticeably different from the elmwoods higher in the hills, at least not in the daylight, but the grey light of day was already fading. 

“Are you sure about this?” Maglor asked Elrond, quietly, as Maedhros, Saeldir, and Umbathiel, all veterans born in the light of the Trees, walked along the slope looking down into the trees for signs of the enemy. 

“No,” Elrond said, and gave Maglor a strained grin. “But if it’s this or choosing to abandon what is left of Ossiriand, and leave poor Denethor enslaved to our Enemy too. It seems worth a try. Don’t you think?” 

“We’ve abandoned enough places already. Ossiriand would be only another name on the growing list. And a dead king of the Laiquendi is not your responsibility. Say the word, and I will tell Maedhros; you don’t have to.” 

“And here I was hoping for a vote of confidence,” Elrond said ruefully. “Never mind,” 

Maglor snorted. “I have every faith in you; you know that very well. It’s only that... it can be hard to say no when Maedhros has an idea. It comes of having six unruly little brothers. It makes him more like our father than he’d like to be.”

The corner of Elrond’s mouth quirked in amusement “That’s what he said, when he asked if I was sure, this morning. Elros would tell you that he has noticed that the plan is always too dangerous, and I am always advised I may make the safer choice.”

“But only Elros would say that?” Maglor raised his eyebrows. 

“Of course. I’m the polite one,” Elrond said, and they both laughed.

* * * * * 

 

When dusk fell, a cold white mist came up from the river, hiding the darkened woods, leaving everything soaked wet. The hilltop felt enclosed by fog, a cold and windowless silent prison. It was growing colder. The grass began to turn white with frost. Somewhere, out there in the mist, there was a power stirring.

The attack came swiftly, this time, faster than they had expected. Six great wolves raced in silently, red eyes blazing, jaws slavering. Fëanor could see they had spirits bound within them, but they were lesser spirits; no great danger. Telutan beheaded one as it leaped for his throat, as Maglor and Umbathiel killed two more. The spirits bound within them fled, and the other three wolves retreated, snarling. Roquenon had been bitten, but was still standing. 

Then the dead king was there, with no warning, within their ranks, as if he had sprung up from the grass. More wolves were coming out of the mist, and the Noldor turned as one to confront them, leaving the dead king in their midst to Maedhros. 

The words to unlock the chains rolled out through the fog, a complex string of liquid syllables with all Maedhros’s considerable authority behind them. The dead king lashed out at him with one chained arm. The blow had the strength of the master of the chains behind it. Maedhros ducked hastily back, and tried again. 

“Be still, and speak!” Elrond cried. It was not part of the plan, but his voice cracked with power. Beside him Maglor was singing a song of the stars of Elbereth, sword in hand. Nine wolves lay dead, but now the trees were moving again. 

The dead king was caught into inaction, head raised, listening. Maedhros spoke a third time, his voice thinning with the strain. This time, the dead spirit spoke, and it was Maedhros’s voice again, but it said only the words that Elrond had spoken: ‘be still... still... still...’ Elrond shot Maedhros an alarmed glance. 

Maglor threw down his sword, swept out his harp, and began a wordless music of sleep, directed at the swaying, creaking darkness of the trees. Without a word, Saeldir and Roquenon fell into place either side of him, guarding against the wolves. 

Maedhros spoke the spell again, for the fourth time, slower, pronouncing every syllable carefully. This time, at last, the strange echo that was Maedhros’s voice in the dead king’s mouth picked up the words, sounding flat against the cold fog. If Fëanor had had breath, he would have held it. 

Maedhros came to the end of the spell, and stepped back a pace cautiously, sword ready, although it was unlikely to be of any great use against a spirit. The dead king was still speaking, slowly, and as he too came to the end of the spell, the wolves were quiet, and the movement in the trees stilled for a long moment. Only the sound of the harp rippled on against the silence. 

There was a barely-audible sound of cracking, and fury beat red from the chains for a brief moment, before they broke into pieces and fell to the ground. 

In the very moment that they fell, the dead spirit lunged forward, still in the seen world and fast as a snake, and struck at Maedhros with the spiked cuff of the chain. It moved so fast that Fëanor could not intercept it. It hit Maedhros on the join in his armour near the neck, and he reeled backwards. 

Elrond shouted, a wordless cry but there was enough strength to it to hold the fading wraith in place, no longer in the seen world, unable to move again. He stepped towards it, and held out a hand, a look of fierce concentration on his face. “Sleep,” he said to it, quietly now. “Sleep and dream of forests under stars, and find what healing you can. Sleep from now until the breaking of the world.”

The unseen wraith paused, bowed, and folded away quietly down into the grass of the hillside. Elrond hurried to Maedhros, who was kneeling, head down, holding his hand to his neck, with Telutan standing over him, sword in hand watching for wolves. 

“Get the horses,” Maglor ordered, hands moving constantly on the harp. “Panonis! Help me hold these thrice-cursed trees back. They do not... want... to sleep.”

“Should I...?” Elrond asked. He was still on his feet, this time, though he was pale. There was a pause before Maglor answered. His fingers were flying on the harp. 

“No. We’ll hold them. Get Maedhros on a horse. Quickly.” 

Fëanor moved down the hillside to set his strength against the trees. It was not easy. They moved largely in the physical world. But among them there were dark spirits stirring. Those he could strike at, and he did. 

 

* * * * * 

 

By the time they got back to Belegost, three days ride away, Maedhros was still mounted only because both Telutan and the horse were both trying very hard to keep him from falling. They had to carry him in through the great bronze-bound doors and up the many steps. 

“He has a broken collar-bone, as you know,” Varyar reported to Maglor, later, in Belegost’s Hall of Heliodor by the fire, once the returning patrol had eaten and slept. “I have given him that willow-bark concoction that the dwarves use, for the pain. His arm will need a sling for a while, but the broken bone seems to have no complication to it. But I think there’s something else. He is still barely conscious, and I can see no reason for it. Roquenon will be well enough though. The wolf-bite is already healing.”

“I’ll go and look at Maedhros,” Maglor said, frowning. Elrond followed him. 

Varyar’s expertise in healing had begun with horses in Himring, but now there were not many of the people of Fëanor left, his skills were proving useful for people, too. Healing had not been an art much practiced by the Noldor in Valinor. There had been little need for it, and with only animal bodies to dissect and almost no disease, the general principles were hard to apply to people. 

They had been forced to develop the art further in Middle-earth, once battle began to leave a trail of wounded, but it was only once they encountered Men, who had so much more need for the art and opportunity to explore it, that anyone among the Eldar had begun to specialise in the study of it. 

Fëanor had wondered, once or twice, if the physicians of Men could have understood and helped his mother, in a way that neither the Valar nor the Eldar had been able to. When she had become ill, in a way that none of the Eldar were ever supposed to become ill, nobody in Valinor had been able to understand it, or to help her. But there was no point dwelling on that. His mother had passed into the dark halls long before the Sun had arisen and Men had woken. 

Maedhros was in bed. Someone had taken off his armour and given him a clean shirt, as well as removing the metal hand, and putting the handless arm into a sling. It was the right collar-bone that had been broken. 

Maedhros looked up when Maglor came into the room, and greeted him in Quenya. That would have seemed quite as usual, except that they had got into the habit of speaking mostly in Sindarin. But then his eyes drifted away across the stone wall and became unfocussed, and he did not reply when Maglor spoke to him, or speak to or look at Elrond at all. 

Maglor sat on the bed, and looked into his brother’s eyes. 

“What are you looking for?” Elrond asked, after a few moments. 

“Anything that shouldn’t be there.” Maglor said, with a grimace. “When he... came back from Thangorodrim, you could see darkness behind the blaze of anger, sometimes. Or the reflection of eyes, looking back out of darkness, just for a moment.  _ That _ was uncomfortable. But they faded, after a while. But he wasn’t like this, then. He could speak. In fact, he was quite sarcastic about it.”

Maglor set his harp on his knee and ran his fingers across it making a ripple of notes as he thought. He sang a short verse, a scattering of Quenya phrases, clear and bright. Maedhros only closed his eyes. Maglor looked at the strings again, puzzled. 

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” 

Maglor winced. “Surely he will,” he said, with transparently false confidence. “But those chains were made by Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron, or so Maedhros said. Very likely they made wounds that can’t be seen. Old scars recut, sometimes they heal crooked...”

“Was I too slow?” Elrond asked. “If I’d spoken more quickly, before it struck...” 

“Elros would be quick to assure me that this is Morgoth’s fault and nobody else’s. It’s not yours. Denethor had been Morgoth’s dead thrall for so long... freeing him was dangerous. We knew that. But you did it. ” Maglor shrugged. “And at least, with Maedhros, you know that he’s survived worse.”

Maglor turned back to his brother. “Maedhros?” he said and took his brother’s hand. There was no response, so he reached out and called to him, mind to mind, as brothers do, but still Maedhros made no answer. 

Fëanor could see Maedhros’s spirit, of course: it was clearer to him than his body. It had not wandered far, but it was white with pain and shock. He would have liked to speak to him, but — the dead should not speak with the living. Perhaps it was indeed necromancy that had left Maedhros vulnerable. Maedhros had been very clear that he would not willingly open his mind to his father. Reaching out to his spirit now would be an intrusion that might do more harm than good. 

Fëanor could see Maglor’s spirit reaching out for his brother, blindly, without knowing quite where to look.  Maglor had always been more skilled with words than with matters of the spirit, and until now, he had not needed skill in such an art, for he had brothers who excelled in it.  

Maedhros’s spirit turned away from him. 

Maglor put the hand down again, gently, and bit his lip. “I must go and speak with Audur. She’s not had a report yet. And I must speak to the patrol that went north, before I do that. But...I think he had best not be alone. I should have told Varyar to come with us. He’ll have gone down to the stables,” Maglor rubbed his face. “It sometimes seems that Varyar thinks that the horses are the most important people in Belegost.”

Elrond had been hovering diffidently near the foot of the bed, but now he came and put an arm around Maglor’s shoulder. “I can stay with him,” he offered. Maglor gave him a swift, grateful hug with the arm that was not holding the harp. 

“It might be as well to speak in Quenya,” he said. 

“Very well,” Elrond said in that language. 

“And don’t... try not to startle him. I’ll come back later, and see if I can sing some sense back into him.” 

“Do you want me to play the harp?” 

Maglor looked down at it and shrugged. He handed it over. “It’s worth a try. No laments.”

Elrond nodded. “No laments. And only songs in Quenya.” 

“I won’t be long. Thank you,” Maglor said. He picked up Maedhros’s sword from the table near the bed as he left, and took it with him. 

Fëanor watched cautiously for some time, but there was no sign that Elrond would use the chance that Maglor had so generously given him to take any revenge.  Fëanor had not really thought he would, though surely the idea must have crossed his mind. 

Elrond only sat and played quietly on the harp, sang a few verses in Quenya that held a hint of a Sindarin lilt to it, and sometimes spoke a few words to Maedhros, conversationally as if Maedhros might at any moment reply. He did not. He lay there, still and pale, looking alarmingly vulnerable without weapons or armour. 

 

* * * * * 

 

Maedhros did not wake that day, or the next, or the day after that. In the Hall of Heliodor, after the evening meal, Maglor began to make plans for the next raid into Ossiriand, as usual. 

Elrond was surprised by that. “Should we not wait for Maedhros to wake? What if Belegost was attacked?”

“I’ll leave a few of our people here with him, of course,” Maglor said. “Umbathiel, Mastiel and Varyar, I think, as a bodyguard. If Belegost is at risk, they will try to get him out into the hills. But our agreement with the Dwarves says that we will send regular patrols to Sarn Athrad, to keep the road clear. They take such agreements seriously.” 

Elrond lowered his voice. “Maglor, there are only a hundred and sixty of us left!” he said. “There are tens of thousands of dwarves in this mountain: they can keep their own road. We should leave, take him east, away from the war, at least for a while. He was better, there, before...”

“I cannot do that,” Maglor said, and he spoke in a strong clear voice so that everyone sitting near could hear him. “Even if I were the only one left. You can go east, if you want, or south to the coast, and anyone here who wishes to go with you. I will give them free leave to go.” There was a low rumble of disagreement around the room. 

“But you won’t?”

“I  _ can’t _ , Elrond,” Maglor said. “Not now the Edain are settled in Eriador. I must keep my face to the Enemy.” 

“But if Belegost is attacked...” 

“If Belegost falls, and Nogrod falls, and Maedhros never wakes again,” Maglor said, in a voice with a sharp desperate edge to it, “then I will ride north against Angband, alone. If I go south, I have given up on taking Morgoth’s Silmarils. The Oath would send me after the jewel your father carries, instead. And I will not... ” he seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying, and Fëanor, watching could feel the Oath coiling around him, and the cold strength of it rising, as he stared at Elrond, whose father had in his keeping a Silmaril. 

Maedhros had fought the Oath with strength, talent, fury and fierce intelligence, and the Oath turned all those back on him. But Maglor fought by refusing to look at it, or acknowledge its power or even its existence. It was a subtler approach, and Fëanor wondered if it had been Maglor who had forsworn the Oath, if he might have succeeded. All the same, you could see the strain upon his face. Fëanor took hold of the Oath himself, and jerked it back. Maglor’s nails were digging into his hands.

“All right,” Carnil said from her seat across the table, in a very calm voice, as if she were quieting a horse. “You were saying ride out to Sarn Athrad at full moon, then a quick raid across the river, my lord? I suggest we take a couple of the new draft of horses along. I would say they are ready for more experience in action now.” 

* * * * * 

  
  


Later, Maglor went away into the room where Maedhros slept, to play the harp for him, and closed the door firmly behind him. It was unclear if Maedhros noticed he was there or not, but Maglor at least seemed to take some comfort from it.

Elrond stayed in the hall, and sat by the fire, honing his sword and dagger. Carnil, returning with an armful of horse-tack to repair, went over to sit next to him. 

“Are you well?” she asked, distributing headcollars across the floor. 

“I’m fine,” Elrond said unhappily, paying close attention to a speck of black orc-blood on a detail of his sword-hilt. 

“He is only trying not to do any more harm, you know,” Carnil said, scooping up a headcollar from the floor and beginning to unpick the damaged stitching

“I can see that. All the same, I thought he was going to hit me.”

“Really?”

“Well... no, perhaps not really. But he looked at me... he looked at me and I could see in his mind that all he could see was a thief. He wanted to hit me, or part of him did... How can he think that?”

“The Oath, of course. You might want to not push him so hard,” Carnil said, driving an awl through leather and pulling the thread taut. “Not that I would not like to go east and forget the war for a while, but if he can’t, then he can’t. If it were Maedhros, he might be punishing himself without need, but that’s not Maglor. He wouldn’t say it if there was no good reason.”

It was late evening before Maglor came out into the hall again. The light that came down long shafts from the mountainside was gone, and the dwarf-lamps were lit. He was a little red around the eyes, and his hair had come loose and was springing around his face in disordered spirals, but he was smiling. “He’s woken up!” he said. Carnil leapt to her feet and exclaimed in delight. The little group of Noldor and Dwarves who had been playing dice further down the hall called out joyfully, and then began to sing softly.

“Would you find him some food, Carnil? He’s hungry.” Carnil hurried away towards the kitchens, smiling. Maglor looked apologetically at Elrond. “‘Sorry’ seems a worn-out word by now,” he said quietly, “but I can’t think of a different one.”

“It’ll do,” Elrond said, and smiled,although he looked a little wary. “I’m glad Maedhros is feeling better.” 

“So am I. Shall I arrange an escort to take you to join Elros?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Elrond told him. 

“I was afraid of that. I need to speak with you in private, then.”

“My room?” Elrond suggested, picking up his sword, dagger and whetstone. Maglor’s sleeping quarters were off the sitting room he shared with Maedhros, and unlikely to be very private. 

Elrond’s room still had two narrow beds, one against the stone wall on either side. He put the bag that held his file and whetstone into a chest — he was careful with his tools, Fëanor must give him due credit for that — sat down on one of the beds with the sword next to him and gave Maglor an enquiring look. Maglor stood, leaning with his back against the door, with the harp in its bag at his feet. 

Fëanor knew exactly what he was afraid of, but he could not quite believe that Maglor was really considering it possible. There were, surely, limits, even now. Their true Enemy lay to the North. That was still true, and something they must hold onto. 

It  _ must _ be possible to keep hold of that. 

“I have four people left here who were not part of the attack on the Havens.” Maglor said, without any preamble. “Mastiel, Tautamion, Nahtanion and his son Roquenon. Mastiel was one of Angrod’s people from Dorthonion, as you know. She’s only here by chance.  Tautamion, because his wooden foot is awkward when unmounted.  Nahtanion’s wife — Roquenon’s mother — was at the Havens before we attacked; they would probably have fought against us there, if they had been given the chance. That’s why we left them with the horses. I will ask them to follow you, as your personal guard. You had best ask Elros to find some of the Edain to join them, if you insist on staying here.”

“You think that’s necessary?” Elrond asked, clearly startled. 

“I wish I didn’t.” Maglor said, and his voice was very tired. “But you saw. I can’t trust myself, let alone poor Maedhros. You aren’t a child any more.”

Elrond considered. “No.” he said. “This is what you did with Elros. If I take that path, I’m going to wake one morning and find I am quite safe, and both of you have vanished into Thargelion, am I not? Maglor, you have been our second father...” 

“That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you,” Maglor said, looking utterly miserable. “Look at what our father did to us. And not because there was no love between us.” Fëanor was hurt by that, but even if he could have spoken to Maglor, he was not sure what words he might have said to him. 

“Well, perhaps you should have stood up to him. It might have done you both good.”

“That’s a mistake you won’t make,” Maglor said ruefully.

Elrond laughed. “You are not your father, any more than I am mine. I don’t have a Silmaril and you don’t even wear jewellery.”

“You aren’t taking this seriously.” Maglor slid down to sit in front of the door and put his arms around his knees, despairing.  His long dark hair curled down hiding his face. 

The laughter left Elrond’s face. “Of course I am. I was waiting for you, with my sword at hand, carefully considering what you taught me about using a word of command inside a mountain. But you are yourself again, and Maedhros is awake. That helps, doesn’t it?”

“It helps me,” Maglor said unhappily. “But Maedhros has had to carry far more than I have. If that can happen to me, it can happen to him, or both of us together. You will need a guard you can trust. You have to sleep.”

“But what can you do to me that would satisfy your Oath? You can’t kill me, or any advantage I bring is gone. What are you so afraid of?”

“Best not call on something that would be unwelcome if it answered,” Maglor said sombrely. 

“But I think we must. I need to understand. Look, come sit on the bed and play the harp. That helps too, doesn’t it?”

“Very well then. Yes, it does help.” Maglor shrugged and moved to sit on the bed that had once been Elros’s, pulling the harp from its cover. “I would have loved to find out why, once, but now I’ll settle for knowing that it does.” 

“That’s good.” Elrond bit his lip, looking pale and distressed. “I’ll lock the door. I can call Mastiel and Nahtanion to help me, if you insist, but ... I think as long as the whole company don’t come bursting in to your aid, I can stop you, if I must.” 

Maglor gave him an assessing look and then a twisted smile. “I should hope so, after all those lessons, since you have a sword and I don’t. Try not to make any big holes, this is a good shirt.”

“It would be a pity to bleed on it,” Elrond agreed, locking the door and smiling back as Maglor ran his fingers across the harp, very gently, so that they barely made a sound. “So tell me. You’d send some threat against me to Gil-galad, to pass to Valinor, and to my father?”

“To Elros. It would have more force that way,” Maglor said bleakly. 

He was brave, Eärendil’s son. He almost did not flinch. “Very well. Elros says no, or more likely, the Valar do, or... or my father. What then?”

Maglor said nothing, but ran his hands across the strings, calling up small clear distant images that faded with the notes — visions of things that might yet be. 

Elrond hanging in agony from a cliff, as Maedhros had once hung. Elros, desperate, killing Noldor who had been his childhood friends to try to reach his brother. 

Eärendil, coming to his aid. In place of an eagle, the shining sky-ship Vingilot. 

Maglor fighting Elros, while Maedhros battled Eärendil for the Silmaril. 

Maglor was weeping as he played. He did not look at Elrond. 

“You wouldn’t,” Elrond said, and he did sound shaken now. “Neither of you. You are not Morgoth!”

“That’s what your mother thought, and her father too. But Menegroth died, and the Havens burned. Don’t tell me what we will not do.” Maglor’s voice, usually so clear, was thick with shame. 

“All right,” Elrond said, his voice catching in his throat. “Enough!” Maglor pulled his hand from the strings as if they burned, and for a moment there was silence.

“It was only in your mind for a moment. You overcame it, even without the harp. Carnil helped you.”

“Carnil is a good friend,” Maglor said, and began to play again, a different music, quiet and sad. “They all are, even poor Roquenon, for all we put his mother in danger... They know what to say and when to say it. They have learned to see the signs of danger. But how shall a potter or a mapmaker, a weaver or an architect stand against the Oath of Fëanor, when the Sons of Fëanor cannot? Look at what we’ve done to them. They were craftsmen, honoured for their art. We made them thieves and killers. The art of the House of Fëanor, sculpting artists into murderers.”

“Stop it!” Elrond said desperately. “That is despair. If I spoke like that you’d tell me to take miruvor and watch more carefully for the shadow of the Enemy creeping into my mind.”

Maglor took a deep breath and visibly made an effort. “I’m sorry. Yet again... I can hardly put my hand on my sword-hilt just now though. We should put that virtue into something less sharp.”

“Some nice warm socks, perhaps,” Elrond suggested tentatively, with a very faint smile. 

“Or a teacup,” Maglor said, very seriously. “Carnil would like that. Put the miruvor into the cup, for maximum efficiency!” He strummed a dramatic chord, as one announcing some great event. 

“Oh, I can’t do this,” Elrond said. He looked down at the sword next to him, and held out his hands helplessly. “I just can’t believe in it. You taught me how to use the sword in the first place. Maedhros gave it to me. I can’t believe I’m sitting here prepared to make holes in your shirt if you turn on me. Please. Can you not just forget what I said, and I’ll forget what I saw?” 

Maglor looked at him and ran his fingers gently across the strings. He shook his head, just a little. “I had thought, since only Maedhros and I are left, that if we kept our faces to the north, now there is a gleam of hope again at last... But I can’t trust myself. The darkness grows.”

“You’re speaking of it now, and calmly enough.” 

“I can’t always be playing the harp,” Maglor said, absently. The melody grew in complexity, swift quicksilver notes like rain. Fëanor let the music run through him, washing dark thought away.

“I’m making it worse by being here, aren’t I?” Elrond said, sadly. “The oath, I mean. If I went away, you could look only towards the Silmarils in Angband.”

Maglor tried to reply, but the thought of Elrond held for ransom was still dangerously close to the surface of his mind. The Oath took him by the throat and choked his words back. His hands stopped moving and he leaned across the harp, holding onto it as if he were drowning. 

Elrond stepped forward, concerned, and knelt so he could look into Maglor’s face. “What’s the matter?”

Maglor’s strong spirit was working hard, twisting to slip away from the power that held it, but the thought of Maglor without a voice was too much for his father to bear. Fëanor hauled the Oath back again. It was ice-cold to the touch, black as soot, but its eyes were red flame. It snarled at him, and bit. He held it back by force of will. It was  _ his _ oath. It would not direct his actions. It would not. Maglor gasped for breath. 

“I should have brought some miruvor after all,” Elrond said, face twisted with worry. “Should I get some now?”

“Give me a moment,” Maglor said, with difficulty. He played a few phrases, a little awkwardly, missed a note and cursed, while Fëanor wrapped himself around his Oath and silently strangled it into submission. There were some things he would not be compelled to do. There was some choice left. There must be. 

“Talk about something else,” Maglor said with an effort.

Elrond stared up at him for a moment. His grey eyes were full of distress, but he had his sword in his hand too. It was hard to blame him: he must be able to see at least the surface of Maglor’s thought, and the images reflected there were neither calm nor kind.Still, he cast about for a subject. 

“Had you heard that Sten the armourer is getting married? I always thought he was one of those dwarves that is wedded to their craft, but no more, it seems. The lady is from Nogrod. I know dwarves are supposed to be secret about their marriages, but that is not Sten. Angruin says, do not ask about her if you are in a hurry. You will get an answer that takes all day...

Maglor closed his eyes, listening, and his grip on the harp loosened a little. Elrond got up and sat on the bed opposite Maglor, laid his bare sword across his knees and went on talking lightly. 

“Does one give dwarves gifts at weddings, do you think? I must ask Angruin if he knows. Although, I don’t think I can make them anything that would meet Sten’s exacting standards. Unless I write them a poem— I think I could do that well enough. But that presents the problem of language. Obviously Khuzdul would be inappropriate, since we aren’t supposed to speak it at all, and anyway, I’m not sure I could write a poem in Khuzdul. It’s hard to be sure you have the grammar straight when you can’t ask and are not supposed to be listening. ” 

Maglor shook his head, agreeing. 

“Sindarin written in the runes of Daeron always looks a little ungainly to me, “ Elrond admitted. “I know they were designed for the language, but the straight lines suit Khuzdul so much better! I think Quenya looks better, when written with the Cirth Daeron, than Sindarin does, although it seems it shouldn’t. But I am not sure if Sten reads Quenya, or his new wife either. Perhaps writing in Sindarin written in the tengwar letters would be safest, but that seems like not trying very hard. I’ve never written a poem in the Taliska of Men. It might be good practice to try, but then, on a first attempt, the poem might not be of good enough quality to make a suitable gift. It is so easy to make rude jokes in Taliska unintentionally... I am not sure I know Sten well enough to present him with a rude poem in Taliska for his wedding day.”

Maglor managed to laugh. “Thank you,” he said, and brought a cascade of bright notes showering from the harp. “Have you thought of a suitable topic for this poem?”

“I don’t think I could dare to write of forges or of mountain-cities, for an audience of dwarves,” Elrond told him. “I could praise their beards. That should be safe.”

“At least, as long as you don’t do it in Taliska,” Maglor agreed.

“But I shan’t have time to write it for their wedding now,” Elrond said, gently. “I must leave here in the morning.”

“Ah,” Maglor said quietly and looked down for a long moment. His fingers were still moving keeping up a quiet shimmer of music. “I’ll miss you. I miss Elros, too. Tell him, if you think he’d want to know...”

“Of course he will.” Elrond said looking distressed. 

“It’s better this way. Of all the hideous things I’ve done... Well. I’d prefer not to add you to the tally. I’ll arrange an escort for you.”

“Audur will send along a patrol of dwarves with me if I ask her, I expect,” Elrond said bleakly. “I don’t think Mastiel, Tautamion, Nahtanion and Roquenon will really want to leave you... Do you?”

“Ask them, at least. They should have the choice.  Tautamion might be safer if he goes with you. One day, he’s going to be caught without a horse, and he won’t be fast enough, if he has to run for it.”

“Very well then. I won’t come back, I promise, no matter what... what messages I receive. Look after Ossiriand for me. Don’t vanish into Thargelion, will you?”

Maglor grimaced. “Not until Finarfin breaks the passages of the Sirion at last, anyway, or the Vanyar finally manage to force their way across the Teiglin. Thargelion has seen better days, it’s true. I’m not eager to go and live there. I’m grateful for the cautious hospitality of dwarves. Perhaps I should write them a poem.”

“I’m sure you’d do it better than I. But... I don’t think living in Thargelion would do you good. Will you stay now for a little while, to talk? Sleep seems like a bad idea. I’ll say farewell to Maedhros and the others in the morning.”

“If you want to,” Maglor said. “If you can put up with talking over harpsong,” 

“You know I’m used to that by now! Tell me... tell me dull, ordinary things about Tirion,” Elrond said. “That should be safe enough. I like hearing about a city that has never known war.”

And Fëanor’s heart was sore for both of them, but there was nothing at all that could be done to mend it. 

 


	18. The Defence of Belegost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war in east Beleriand intensifies.

Elrond was gone, and Fëanor’s sons went back to their usual round of patrols and raids. Out into the darkened land of Thargelion, across Sarn Athrad, if there was an enemy force in sight that was not too great to tackle, then riding swiftly back before they could call on reinforcements. Again, and again, and again. 

Elrond was a loss to their fighting force, but it was more than only that. Elrond had not only hoped that there were better days ahead, he had believed them possible. Without him, that belief was harder to sustain. There was only the need to keep on fighting: day after darkened day, one small grim unimportant battle after another.

A year later, the news came to Belegost that Ulmo had sent another wave. The south of Beleriand had been washed away clear to the foothills of the Andram Wall. 

In the wake of the wave had come the Edain, Ulmo’s foot-soldiers, under the command of Elros. Elros had struck at the new south coast of Beleriand, had driven Morgoth’s armies shrieking North, and set up his command at the old fortress of Amon Ereb, now in ruins and on the very edge of the new sea.

Maglor rode out one day without announcing where he was going, without asking Maedhros for permission, dodging across rivers and through armies with a handful of his people across East Beleriand, leaving Maedhros in Belegost. 

Fëanor stayed with his eldest son.  He had not known that Maglor had planned to make such a journey, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he would return. But of course he would. It was his duty, and Maglor had never once failed at that. Of the two of them, Maglor was whipcord tough still, but there was a fragility to Maedhros now that wrung his father’s heart, a sense that his fire could fail and his iron will break entirely. 

Fëanor did not speak with Maedhros, for Maedhros clearly did not wish it. But he watched as he paced, as he watched and waited, as he rode out through the ruins of Thargelion to chase goblins and shadows back into the north. It was all that he could do. 

Maglor returned after a number of days, quiet, tired and miserable, with the news that Elros had become a very able general, and that Celebrimbor and Elrond were with him. 

“If they must insist on having the company of the House of Fëanor, they’ll do far better with Celebrimbor than us,” Maedhros told him. 

“True,” Maglor said pulling off his riding gloves. He looked across the firelit hall at Maedhros and gave him a twisted smile.  “Elrond gave me a perfectly comfortable place to sleep, on my own in a tent surrounded by fifty-odd Edain.  Every one of them looked as tall and broad as Hador himself...  I felt like a deerhound in a pack of mastiffs.” 

“Better a deerhound than a wolf.  You can’t reasonably complain that he is cautious.”

“No.  No, you’re right.” Maglor sighed. “Celebrimbor will do just as good a job as I could of ensuring Elros does not take on more than any three people could reasonably manage, and that Elrond does not break his neck taking some needless risk.”

“Good that Celebrimbor has a commander who trusts and values him, too,” Maedhros said. “His position on Balar cannot have been easy.”

“He wasn’t much impressed with me,” Maglor said. “But that’s only to be expected, I suppose, after the Havens. He was civil enough at least, since Elros asked him to be... I still miss them.” 

“So do I,” Maedhros told him. “And so many others. But.” 

Maglor sighed. “Yes. But. The Enemy.”

“And the Silmarils.”

Maglor grimaced, but then he nodded. “You were right. They are better off without us. I’m sorry. I won’t go again.” 

“There’s no way out,” Maedhros said, almost apologetically, as if this were something Maglor might not have noticed.

Maglor shrugged.  “Probably not,” he said. “But you never know.  We thought Valinor had given up on us, and Finarfin had gone home to live in peace forever, and then suddenly there were Eönwë‘s trumpets sounding. Let’s have a drink.  Something may turn up.” 

* * * * * 

The Enemy had made several attempts to retake Thargelion, but until now, none of them had been very serious. Most of the action of the war was taking place in the West. Maedhros, sometimes in the company of the dwarf-commander Audur, watched what the last seeing stone would consent to show, and Fëanor watched too, frustrated yet still touched by hope. 

The Vanyar, with the aid of Círdan’s Falathrim, made many small light boats and raided across the Northern Sirion into the land that had been Doriath. Now it was a breeding-place of Morgoth’s dragons, a place where the remaining trees were twisted and dark, and there were great bowls and hollows in the earth where the dragons had made great nests. 

The Vanyar were beaten back, despite their Dwarf-armour, in flame and smoke, and soon were struggling to hold Dimbar. 

Then yet more dragons came lumbering out of what had been Gondolin, and launched flaming into fierce attack against the Vanyar. They were forced back across the line of Sirion — though the Sirion, from the small visions shown by the seeing-stone, was almost unrecognisable now as the silver river that had flowed through the heart of Beleriand. Its waters now wandered melancholy through a land of torn mud, smoking pits and stinking fens in which the songs of the Vanyar and the Maiar had contested with the beasts of Morgoth for far too long. 

And now, the Enemy’s effort in East Beleriand was redoubled. New armies, mailed and armoured, carrying sable banners, poured south out of Angband to fortify Estolad, and to reinforce the Andram wall and the passages of Sirion.

It was clear that the small remaining Noldor force could not continue to hold the road to Sarn Athrad unsupported, and the sons of Fëanor and their people were reassigned to lookout duty, when there was no other task that required their talents. 

Maedhros looked out from the most westerly outpost of Belegost, a room with a tall window looking out from an outthrust spur of Mount Dolmed, that stood like a tower looking down West towards Sarn Athrad and the river Gelion. From here, in the dim light of day shadowed by the smokes of Thangorodrim, elven sight could just see the ford, though it was too far for dwarves to see. The original low-ceilinged rocky corridor to the lookout point had been hastily extended upwards so that Elves as well as dwarves could walk here in reasonable comfort. 

“They’re crossing the river,” he told Audur, who was sitting at a low table that was mostly covered in a large, much-annotated map. 

“Good,” Audur said with confidence. “We’ll see how far they get.”

The Enemy’s army crawled from the river like a vast black-scaled serpent, heading swiftly up the old dwarf-road. Most of them were across the river now, and the vanguard was moving up towards the wooded foothills.

And then, abruptly, the smooth menacing motion of the armoured orcs was broken. The serpent fell into flailing segments as the road beneath their feet heaved and fell away. 

“They have fallen into the pit,” Maedhros said, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Most of them are well caught up in it. Their rearguard still stands, I think, there are trees in the way... Ah, and now Ivaldi has sprung his trap, and the dwarves are coming down from the hill to drive those that escaped into it.”

“So far, so good,” Audur said cheerfully. 

“Those orcs that can get out are fleeing back to the river. Where are you, Maglor? Late, as usual... Ah, here he is at last. The river is rising...” He stopped speaking, and made a sudden intake of breath. 

“What?” Audur demanded. 

“There is something else with that army, among the rearguard. Something very strong. A necromancer, or a Balrog, perhaps.” 

“Well,  _ which? _ ”

“I don’t know... A Balrog, probably. It is calling on its master to raise the land against Maglor and the river. Rock is running red.... There is too much steam. I cannot see any more.” 

He turned from the window. “The whole valley is full of smokes and steams,” he told her wearily. “It’s coming this way.”

Audur leaped to her feet. “I must send to the king and get our people moving out of the city, east to safety,” she said. She paused for a moment. “Are you not going to get into armour?”

Maedhros let out a breath, and straightened. “Yes, “ he said. “I’ll get my people together and go to the gate. Maglor is still alive down there somewhere. I can feel him. With luck, so are Ivaldi and his people.”

“We can only hope,” Audur said, and she hurried away. 

Maedhros did not move. Fëanor hesitated, waiting, but still Maedhros stood unspeaking, staring blankly down at the map that Audur had abandoned on the table. 

_ You should go _ , he said at last to his son, when Maedhros still did not move.  _ Your brother will need your aid.  _

“All my brothers needed my aid,” Maedhros said without looking at him. “I am coming to the conclusion that there is no aid that can be given by the House of Fëanor that does not end in greater darkness.”

_ If we have no choice but darkness, then we might as well blaze bright before we burn out. _

“I wonder if that is what the Balrog thinks,” Maedhros said quietly.

_ Does it matter? There is still a task to be done, and the Balrog stands in the way.  _

Their Oath pulled at Maedhros so that his head came up and his breath came faster, but he did not move. He gave his father a look that still had more than Fëanor had expected of the old fire in it. 

“True,” he said. “There is still an Enemy. No star left to follow, only darkness everlasting. I suppose it’s better than nothing at all.”

_ There is still light,  _ Fëanor told him.  _ There is, even if you cannot see it.  _

“So my father’s dark ghost tells me,” Maedhros said and laughed, almost without humour but it was a laugh. “Very well.  Last time I trusted you, things did not go smoothly, but they could have gone much worse. There is light somewhere, probably, and my last little brother needs my help. I shall go on trying. I am left with little choice.” 

In the Hall of Heliodor, the Noldor who had not gone with Maglor were waiting to be called on. Maedhros strode through calling the command to arm, and by the time Ecetion had helped him on with his own armour, they were all ready: less than a hundred, all told, for Maglor had taken a patrol with him. 

The sound of running feet echoed through the mountain-city as they marched down to the main gate. The long-laid plans to escape the city were being followed, and dwarves must now be pouring out of the eastern gates and away into the pass. 

But in the great halls behind the Westgate, armoured dwarves were rallying. Maedhros found their commander. 

“I’m not opening the gates now,” Hepti snarled at him. “It’s coming. We don’t know how far away it is!” 

“Yes, I know,” Maedhros said. “It was I who saw it. I doubt it will be here yet: they move swiftly, but not that swiftly. But we are not in such numbers that we need the main gates. Let us use the western sally port. You can block the corridor behind that once we are gone.”

“All right,” Hepti said, without pausing to think about it. “Get going!” 

A company of dwarves nearby turned to follow Maedhros as they ran for the sally port. They were led by a cousin of Ivaldi, the commander of the Dwarven troops that had been with Maglor down by the riverside. Behind them as they ran, ducking a little to avoid the low roof, they could hear the sounds of Dwarves pulling across the heavy blocks that would prevent attackers coming up from the river through the corridor, but would also cut off any retreat this way.

From the sally port, you could not see down into Thargelion, and certainly not as far as the river: the mountains cut off the view. The air smelled of ash and smoke. The sally port was too narrow for horses, so they were afoot.

“It will take them time to get past Ivaldi,” Maedhros said, lifting his voice so that the dwarves who had followed could hear him too. “Still, we must hurry. We are needed.” They ran down the long valley that sloped towards the lowlands of Thargelion, the tall Elves soon outdistancing the Dwarves. 

The Balrog had set flame in the woods that still clung to the hills along the old dwarf-road and as they turned the corner of the mountain-shoulder and came down the hill, the whole land ahead was hidden in a thick grey mix of smoke and steam. Cries and the sounds of battle were coming out of it, but it was impossible to see what they were facing. 

Maedhros glanced across at his father. Before he had to speak, Fëanor threw himself upon the air, speaking words of power. The air was reluctant to hear him. It hung, smoky, heavy, infused with the essence of the Enemy, coiling darkly. 

Fëanor gathered his spirit, and tried again, speaking to it fierce words of wild winds upon the mountain, calling to it gently of bright breezes that had run across the grasses of Beleriand before ever the Enemy had come there to befoul it. Gradually, reluctantly, the air yielded to his persuasion and began to move, carrying the mists and smokes away into the west.

“Telutan, take the right flank. Saeldir, the left,” Maedhros said calmly. The dwarves were coming up behind them, but they did not move so swiftly, and had taken longer to pass the mountain-shoulder. 

As the pale mist began to clear, curling away in thin streams and tendrils, the small force coming down from Belegost could see bodies strewn along the road — dwarves and orcs and men — and a force of black-armoured orcs still holding together, pressing on.  What was left of Ivaldi’s people were being driven back up the hill beyond: Ivaldi himself, a great broad-shouldered Dwarf, wearing golden armour and the flame-coloured livery of the House of Azaghâl, was among them.

At the head of the enemy, emerging from the clearing mist, was a great dark figure filled with flame and terror, carrying a red sword and a fiery whip. 

Its eyes went up to Fëanor, poised upon the air, but Maedhros stepped forward. “Turn back!” he shouted. “Turn back! Thargelion is under the protection of the Sons of Fëanor. There is no place here for the servants of the Enemy.”

The Balrog turned to him and laughed like roaring flame. “I see an escaped thrall,” it said. “Have we still not punished thee enough, slave? Thou cravest yet another whipping?”

“There is no place here for you, Naegramog!” Maedhros said. “Turn back, or I will bring you as near death as you can know.” 

“Nay!” the Balrog said in a great rolling voice that beat with power. “Kneel! Kneel to me thrall, and I may yet show mercy and slay thee. Or do not and I will take thee back to thy true master. He will delight in choosing thy punishment.”

The power of its voice bit into Maedhros, and you could see him shudder under it as if at a blow. 

But the Balrog was not on its own ground, and it had already spent much of its power. Maedhros was fresh to the fight. He shook the words away contemptuously and stepped forward, sword in hand. 

The red whip cracked down, but Maedhros was not there. He had leapt aside. “You are bound to your flesh now, just as I am, Naegramog,” Maedhros told it, taunting. “Does it feel strange to you, to be trapped in a single form? Unchanging and vulnerable?” 

The Balrog brought the whip down again and missed, barely. “I will strip the flesh from thee entirely,” it hissed. “I will leave thee alone forever in everlasting darkness, like all thy brothers.” 

Fëanor was still holding the mists and smokes back, but he almost lost them at that. 

Maedhros did not seem discomposed. “I will break your flesh,” he told it, and ducked under a vast blow to hack at it from behind as he passed. “I will take away the only form,” and he struck again swift as thought, “the only form you have, Naegramog, hideous as it is, painful,” and again he caught its side and danced swiftly back as it roared “...painful as it is.”

“Do you remember what he offered you, Naegramog?” Maedhros called as he ran past it. “Do they seem worth it, still, your master’s lies?” 

The other Noldor were cutting at the orcs, who had come flooding past the Balrog, beating the Elves back so that Maedhros and his adversary now were a little apart from the crowd, in a space south of the road. 

The whip flicked out, but it only caught his armoured right arm a glancing blow. Maedhros laughed harshly and slid sideways. 

“Now you are trapped in this form, wed to Arda,” Maedhros told it. “Arda that is bitter now...” and he struck at its massive arm and it recoiled. “That cuts at you now, Naegramog, inescapable...” and he cut at its foot.

“I’ll chain thee in the pit, in agony for a thousand years,” the Balrog hissed, striking out with the whip. Maedhros ducked under it. “And that will be only the beginning.”

The new force of Dwarves from Belegost had come up. “Baruk Khazâd! Baruk Khazâd!” Their fierce warcries rang out across the hills and into the burning woods as they charged into the fight beside the faltering Elves, and in answer Ivaldi rallied his remaining people, and began to push back down the hill.

The orcs were falling back a little, but both sides left the Balrog and Maedhros to their dance. Fëanor moved to support his son, but Maedhros seemed not to need him. 

“I am a child of Arda,” Maedhros said, almost conversationally, as he spun past the Balrog. “I was born to this flesh.” A swift skilled blow to the flank, and he darted back. “I was. Born to be bound to this painful, dark and terrifying world.” 

The Balrog roared wordlessly and hit at him with its blazing sword.

Maedhros dodged, and went on; “This is my nature. Nothing you can do....” and he hit the other side hard, so it lurched. “Nothing you can do to me, Naegramog, is as terrible as what you have done,” another blow, “what you have done to yourself...” and the Balrog was falling forward. “... caging yourself against your nature,” Maedhros said, and his sword hit it, very finally, at the back of its massive head. “In flesh that can be  _ killed _ .” and he drove the sword deep then wrenched it out and stepped back. 

The Balrog was lying very still, and the flame in it guttered out as the Noldor won through the last of the orcs and came up to join him. Maedhros gave it a bitter look. “Cut its head, arms and legs off,” he ordered. “It must not creep back into that body and make use of it again.”

Umbathiel gave him a worried look. “Should we not first seek for your brother, my lord?” 

Maedhros looked at her silently with eyes that blazed, and Umbathiel took half a step back, recoiling as if from a blow. Fëanor thought of speaking, but if he did that here, he might be heard by all nearby, and there was danger enough to that even when there was not a Balrog-spirit homeless and somewhere close. 

“It will be done,” Saeldir said, gently and with caution. “But it might be quicker to do that task with axes than with swords and spears, Maedhros.” Brave of him, that, for all that he was some kind of very-distant cousin, and for all that Maedhros was his lord, and had saved his life half a dozen times. 

Maedhros blinked once and shook his head. “A good point.” He took a deep, slow breath, and the cautious elves around him relaxed. “It was lying. They do that. Maglor is alive, Umbathiel, and I think not too badly hurt. He’ll not want us to come for him without making sure that thing is not on our trail.” 

“I’ll speak with the dwarves and ask their help,” Saeldir said. “Perhaps take miruvor and rest a little? That was a deed of great valour. Maglor will want to make a song of it.”

“I don’t need songs about my deeds.” Maedhros rubbed a gloved hand across his face. “But very well, Saeldir. I will take miruvor and I will also try harder not to glare. Thank you. But I had better speak with Ivaldi myself. I daren’t risk the Dwarves taking offence: we have few enough friends left already.”

Saeldir smiled. “You have just slain a Balrog that was about to bring ruin to their city,” he pointed out. “I think they might forgive you if you take a few moments to rest.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said. “But believe me, Saeldir, when I say that I will be much happier if I have explained to the Dwarves myself the urgency that... that beast... should be chopped into very small pieces.” He managed, to Fëanor’s surprise, to summon up a smile of sorts. “I may want to jump up and down on them afterwards.”

Saeldir gave a wry smile in return. “Of course,” he said, and by the time Maedhros had spoken with the Dwarves and returned with a company armed with axes, the Noldor had already contrived to remove the Balrog’s head. 

 

* * * * * 

The Gelion, when they came near enough to see it properly, did not look much like a river, any more. The land had been torn and ripped apart as if by great claws: the place where the road had run down to the ford of Sarn Athrad was a great wide rent in the earth, where surging water ran away, roaring down into darkness. The riverbed steamed and hissed, water was spreading out into a swamp, and the ground across the river was reared up into black heaps of tumbled stinking stone that stretched away into the gloom. 

They found Maglor some time later, not far from the old river-course, with Carnil and Nahtanion and most of the rest of his patrol, riding slowly back towards Belegost. They were all black with soot, and several were burned, though the horses were uninjured: they must have dismounted before the fight. Maglor’s burns were the worst: the fiery whip had caught his face and torn the gauntlet from one hand, and his blistered left arm hung at an unlikely angle. Behind the angry red of the burn, his face was very pale.

Nahtanion hurried forward in relief as soon as he saw them. “He won’t let me touch it,” he told Maedhros plaintively. 

“Oh hush, Nahtanion,” Maglor said in a voice that was a harsh whisper. “It is only burned. I can ride. It will get better soon enough.” 

“But in the meanwhile, you can’t fight or play the harp like that,” Maedhros said looking him up and down and frowning. “Or sing, from the sound of it. Come on. Off the horse, Maglor.” 

Maglor gave him a look that would certainly have daunted most of his other brothers, and dismounted awkwardly. He hit the ground heavily and winced, biting at his lip. 

“Stand still and let Varyar put it in a sling. I’ll sing it back together once we’re clear of the enemy.” Maedhros ordered. 

“You?” Maglor said, incredulously and unfairly. Maedhros was entirely capable of mending a broken arm. Maglor was in considerable pain, or he would not have said it. 

“Yes. Me. I’d do it here, but there are probably still orcs about. You’ll have to put up with it until we get back to Belegost. But we’ll strap it up. There’s no point you trying to ignore it.”

“There’s still the Balrog,” Maglor said, hoarse and miserable. “It got past me.” 

“But not past me. It’s dead. Ivaldi and his people are mopping up the last of the orcs now. We live to fight another day.”

Maglor sagged with obvious relief. “Must we?” 

“Yes, we must,” Maedhros said. He looked at his brother thoughtfully, and shook his head. Fëanor could see why. Maglor seemed barely able to stand, and and given that this  _ was _ Maglor, that was rare indeed. “Look, sit down for a moment, while I look at this arm and set some words on it to take the worst of the pain away. Then you only have to make it back to Belegost to rest. You can do that. Just a little further.” 

He sounded as he might have done years ago, before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Perhaps, almost as he might have spoken when Maglor had been very young. 

“Oh,” Maglor said, looking as if a great weight had lifted from him. He sat down on a stump of shattered stone which had a pattern of lilies carved on one side. “I feel very small, complaining of a broken arm and blisters, to you,” he said. 

“It’s not a competition. And that is a very nasty burn. Stay still,” Maedhros told him, and he set words of healing on the burns, enough at least that Varyar could touch Maglor’s hand to pull the arm into place and secure it in a sling. 

* * * * * *

 

The eastern front was quiet for a good while, after the fall of the Balrog. Presumably either Morgoth or his chief lieutenant had decided that Belegost was too tough to tackle without preparation. 

But there was one consequence of the Balrog’s fall. 

Nogrod, by far the weaker of the two Dwarf cities of the Ered Luin after Beren’s victory against their army at Sarn Athrad, had so far stayed out of the war. They had sent messages and occasional supplies to their cousins in Belegost, and they had received messages politely enough from Maedhros, but had made it clear that they would do no more. 

Perhaps they had become aware that Beren’s heirs had taken refuge in Belegost, though they did not say so, at least not where Fëanor and his sons could hear. What the King of the Firebeards of Nogrod was prepared to say in public was that a war between Elves and their enemies was no concern of his. 

The Balrog had changed that. The Firebeard king now sent urgently to Belegost with promises of support, and to Maedhros himself, asking if the Noldor allies of their cousins would join in an alliance, and help them make an agreement with the forces of the West. 

“Well!” Maedhros said to Maglor, once the messenger had left. “I’m flattered, but I fear they greatly over-rate our influence. Still, I suppose there are two people left that we can speak to about this.” 

 

* * * * *

 

“And how do you suggest I explain this alliance with Nogrod to the Doriathrim, and to Gil-galad?” Elros enquired, through the seeing-stone, some time later, when Maedhros had finally managed to catch him using his stone and with time to speak in private. 

“It might be better to simply not mention it to the Doriathrim, if that is feasible,” Maedhros suggested “Speak only of the Dwarves, and let them think you mean Belegost. You could tell Gil-galad that they sent their messenger directly to you, I suppose, without there being any real untruth to it, if you think that is a problem. I am only handing the message on to you. ”

“Of course you are,” Elros said, and gave him a knowing grin. “It would be most unlike you to be brokering alliances, after all. I am not too concerned. Gil-galad will listen to my advice, at least, and Belegost has been a very useful ally.” He looked over at Maglor, sitting near his brother with a cup of wine in his unbandaged hand. “What happened to you? You look a mess.”

“Thank you, Elros,” Maglor said, in a voice that was only a little huskier than usual. “That makes me feel  _ so _ much better. I recommend only fighting a Balrog if you have a brother to hand who can come and rescue you if you make a botch of it.” 

“You fought a Balrog?” Elros’s eyebrows went up, impressed. 

“I fought it with very little success — except that it didn’t kill me — and it walked right over me. Maedhros killed it,” Maglor said. “Nogrod was clearly stirred by his success. That’s why they have suddenly become so friendly.” 

“I’ll have to tell Círdan,” Elros said with a grin. “He’s very proud of his fight with a Balrog — but he didn’t finish his, it got away!”

“It might be better not to mention it,” Maedhros said. “I fear the days when I could compare deeds with Círdan are past. Count it as amends, if you like.”

“You’re doing well on amends... You weren’t badly hurt, Maglor? Elrond will want to know.”

“Only a broken arm. Oh and some blisters.  You know how I hate blisters... Maedhros sang the arm back together, which was much worse than breaking it. I screamed very loudly, and he ignored me.”

“He is only a little scorched.” Maedhros gave his brother a sideways look with some amusement to it. “He squeaked somewhat when the bones came back together, but he has been complaining loudly, which is usually a good sign. He can still play the harp.” 

“But alas, I am forbidden from making a song of it,” Maglor said. “Not that I particularly want to make a song about being embarrassingly trampled, but Maedhros’s part...”

“Enough of songs,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“Oh very well then. I won’t mention it,” Elros said, making a face. “Though, you know, things are very dull down here at our end of Beleriand. We only see orcs and the occasional army of Men from time to time, at Amon Ereb. And a troll, the other day, but sadly he was going west and didn’t stop to visit us. I was looking forward to having something to boast about to Círdan next time he comes by with supplies.”

“Dear me,” Maedhros said and there was the faintest hint of a gleam in his eye. “We can’t have you getting bored. I did have one other thought that I had a mind to mention, since we needed to speak with you of Nogrod anyway.”

Elros leant forward, his grey eyes shining. “Now, might this be a thought about an attack from Belegost across the Gelion, coordinated with a new offensive against the passages of Sirion?” he asked. “Because, as it happens, Elrond and I were discussing with the lord Ingwion only the other day, that old idea of Elrond’s, about raising the River.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story [ Faithless Is He That Says Farewell When the Road Darkens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099708) from Elrond's point of view connects with this one at the point where Maglor disappears at the start of this chapter.


	19. Battles Lost and Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are armies of song, sieges broken, Maedhros being persistent, pickled turnips and Fingon's bones.  
> And Fëanor meets Sauron once again. 
> 
> [Thanks to Lyra for a very helpful beta on the last scene. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fort of Wallsend at the eastern end of the Andram Wall is otherwise undocumented. It is possible that the author of this document had access to other sources not otherwise preserved, but some scholars consider Wallsend to be a complete fabrication.

The combined attack failed. 

The armies of Belegost, supported by a token force from Nogrod, struck as arranged across the River Gelion, an attack timed to meet the raising of the River Sirion. The ford at Sarn Athrad had been swept away by the Balrog, and so crossing was more difficult than it might have been. Then the Dwarves and their Noldorin scouts were met by a great army coming down through Maglor’s Gap out of Angband. 

There was a short, savage struggle, during which both the Dwarves and the Noldor did more damage than they took. 

In that battle, none could say that Nogrod, late-come to the war, did not play their full part: the Firebeard king, charging furiously into action from his position at the rear, saved the King of Belegost and his housecarls from a force of trolls.  His charge flung the trolls back, and gave the dwarves of Belegost time enough to turn the great wheeled war-bows upon them.  

Maedhros was fearsome in that battle. His face was hard to look upon for its fury, and the orcs fled in terror from his eyes as the horses in full armour came down upon them.

But they did not flee for good: only enough to give the dwarves a breathing space. But soon, everyone could see overwhelming new strength of the Enemy coming down from the North. They had no choice but to retreat across the Gelion. 

When the Sirion was called down in spate, the Fens of Sirion were flooded deep and the wild waters spread far onto the East bank of Sirion and up the river Aros. But the foundations of the Andram defences, set in place long ago by Curufin, Amrod and Amras, and strengthened since by many cunning arts of the Enemy, held strong. Finarfin’s army was still unable to pass the Sirion or enter East Beleriand. 

The Vanyar, so far as it was possible to be sure from the confused reports afterwards, and the jumbled images that the single remaining seeing stone was able to show, very nearly took the pass of Sirion, the pass where long ago Finrod’s tower had stood, where Finrod had come hastening with his army and found himself beleaguered in the Fens. 

There was little opposition as the Vanyar headed towards Tol Sirion, singing as they marched: the strongest army by far of all the forces engaged in the war, led by Ingwion, son of the High King of all Elves, and Eönwë, herald of the Valar, and there were Maiar with them. They had, at last, freed Brethil of the dragons that had beset it. The dragons still infesting Doriath would have to travel far north to come at them across the river Sirion, which even in those more northern lands was still a formidable barrier to creeping beasts of fire. 

But then the Enemy, or perhaps some servant of his, for Morgoth himself was nowhere to be seen, moved the mountains. 

They did not move far, but the pass of Sirion was a narrow one. The mountains did not need to move far to block it.  The Vanyar, fleet of foot, had fewer losses than Maedhros had feared when first they heard the news of the western host, but their whole host was flung back again into Dimbar. 

The dark and bitter waters of the River Sirion, choked at the source, sank down the banks, leaving the River of Beleriand, which had once run silver under starlit skies low, dark and muddy. 

To the North, Gil-galad and Círdan’s attempt to enter Dor-lómin and re-take the remains of Hithlum was beaten back, and what was left of Nevrast began to collapse into the sea. 

Only the Edain had had much success. They smashed away the Enemy’s makeshift defences around Amon Ereb and marched unopposed out into East Beleriand, heading for the old fort of Wallsend. There they briskly negotiated a peace with the Easterlings who were holding the fort, disarmed them and allowed them to surrender. 

Elros held the old fort for two days, until it was clear from the seeing-stones that neither Finarfin’s army out of the west nor the Dwarves would be coming to reinforce his position.  Wallsend was not designed for defence against the rest of the Andram, which was still strongly held by the Enemy.  

So Elrond, Elros and Celebrimbor brought the walls down. 

Then, with a minimum of fuss, Elros pulled out of Wallsend and retreated swiftly back to Amon Ereb, before the fort could be turned into a trap. 

When they heard that Elros, Elrond and their people had reached Amon Ereb and safety unhurt, Maedhros retreated quietly to his quarters, locked the door, and did not come out for a day. Fëanor hoped that he had managed to weep. 

Maglor, on the other hand, got very drunk in the company of a goodly number of Dwarves and most of the Noldor who were not on watch duty, and filled the Hall of Heliodor with music. 

Eventually, Maedhros came out and joined them. He even sang a little, and that made Maglor smile in turn. 

But in the end they had achieved little, save for a fair number of deaths.

 

* * * * * * 

 

Outside on the mountain, snow was falling, hiding the dark ash-stains on the rocky cliffs, but in Belegost, a bright fire was burning under the finely-carved stone mantlepiece in the high-ceilinged main room of the house of Audur. Audur was sitting in her chair by the fireside with a cup of warm spiced ale, and Maedhros was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, which made them very nearly the same height. 

“No,” Audur said, decisively, shaking her white-braided head at Maedhros. “We can’t try it again. The King won’t have it. The council won’t, either.”

“But...”

“We just don’t have the people to risk it, Maedhros! It’s not as if we came to the last battle at full strength. You know how many we lost in Nirnaeth Arnoediad, not to mention retaking Thargelion and Mount Rerir. And not only us. Tumunzahar lost an army at Sarn Athrad, and that loss is still sorely felt. ”

“If the Enemy turns his full attention here, though, all will be lost for Belegost.” Maedhros said.

Audur looked very uncomfortable. “Yes, I know. If the Balrog had come here, we would have lost everything. We do honour our debts, I assure you.”

“That was never in any doubt,” Maedhros said gravely. “The people of Belegost have been generous and kindly hosts to myself and all my people.”

Audur looked more cheerful at that, and chuckled. “All of you indeed. Even the great-grandchildren of Beren the Redhanded. I didn’t mention _that_ to our King.”

“Ah,” Maedhros said, with unusual awkwardness. 

Audur grinned. “He isn’t stupid. I’m sure he knows. But he didn’t have to take official notice of it.”

“They were very young.” 

“Yes. I hope we have more sense than to blame children for the quarrels of their ancestors. We are all enemies of the one Enemy, after all.”

“We are. I hope that means you have changed your mind,” Maedhros said. He would not convince her, Fëanor could see that. Probably Maedhros could see it too. Fëanor wondered if he kept trying only out of habit. 

“No,” Audur told him, smiling. “We owe you much, but we must have a mind to other obligations. You may be prepared to throw yourself and your people into this war till nobody is left, but my King will not, and nor will Tumunzahar. Not if there is still hope that we can survive with anything left of who we were.”

Maedhros frowned. “I fear I gave up my own hope of that long ago.”

“I know that too,” Audur told him reprovingly. “Another thing I haven’t mentioned to our King. We count such thoughts unlucky; he wouldn’t understand. I do consider you to be a friend... Well, so far as an El _f can_ be a friend! But that doesn’t mean I can take your part always.” 

Maedhros bowed his head. “I am glad to have such a friend,” he said, with an effort at a smile. “I fear I have little choice about being an Elf. I can only try to be as steadfast as the Dwarves.”

“You haven’t done too badly. Not for someone who is far too tall.”

A weak enough joke, but it got a real smile this time. “Some might call you incautious. For one so short.”

Audur snorted indignantly and tugged her beard, now long and white. “Yes, I can imagine where you’ve heard that,” she said. “With one hand they push me towards dealings with the Elves, so _they_ don’t have to learn how to deal with you. Then they whisper behind the other hand of recklessness, and ask why I have no children.”

Maedhros blinked, startled. “I had not heard anything of that kind,” he said. “I was speaking lightly.”

“Oh,” Audur said, and huffed out her breath. 

“I did not know our presence here had brought you trouble with your own people,” Maedhros said. 

“It hasn’t. Well, not trouble, really, and certainly not since the Balrog. There are always those who think they know better and are prepared to say so loudly. The less they know, the more of a pain in the arse they are!”

“Truth undeniable,” Maedhros said and looked sideways at her. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “I thought you came to us as the voice of your king.”

“I do. But it’s not usual for Dwarf-women to spend time outside the cities, or act as envoys. Or go to war. Not the proper thing, you see? We’re supposed to stay in the city, away from strangers, and devote ourselves to craft and children. Children, preferably, since we’re at war, and our numbers dwindle with the years.” 

“I had heard something of that,” Maedhros admitted. “But I thought you had chosen another path.”

“Yes. Well, you gave me that path to take, you and your brothers, years ago when I was young. I never wanted children, and I’m better with words than I am with tools, though I’ll thank you to keep that very quiet. I might as well hang onto what little reputation I have left!”

“I am less handy myself than once I was,” Maedhros said wryly, and Audur snorted. 

“Anyway, the King needed someone to be his voice and speak with Elves. I leapt at the chance and scandalised my cousins and my neighbours... The King is happy enough though, so it should be no business of anyone else’s.” She looked at him consideringly. “I thought you knew all this already.”

“There’s a lot of Belegost that we don’t see, I suspect,” Maedhros said. “We don’t fit. In more than one sense, isn’t that true?”

“This is a city of the Dwarves,” Audur told him, frowning. 

“Yes. And the Dwarves talk with us in Sindarin, in the public halls and guest quarters, and mostly speak only of things that are comfortable to talk about. I’m sure there are many subtleties I miss. You’ll have to spell them out to me, if you wish me to understand, I’m afraid. ” 

“You are in my house now,” Audur pointed out. “No doubt my neighbours are scandalised all over again.”

“Yet you sound pleased.”

Audur laughed. “I’m far too old to be worrying about the disapproval of cousins. I invite my friends to my house as I wish.” She took a gulp of ale. “In the end, a friendship with the Noldor has surely saved more of our people than doing what they expected of me.”

“You lost your king.”

“And you lost yours. Neither of us happy about that. But Azaghâl would have died if you had not come to his rescue in any case. The Enemy would not have left us in peace, if we had refused your alliance.”

“No. Nor will he now.”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Audur laughed. 

Maedhros spread his hand before him for a moment. “I only have the one. If I’m using it to try to push you towards unwelcome choices, I don’t have another to whisper behind.” 

Audur chuckled. “Hm! You are handy enough with words. But even so, you’re less devious than my cousins and neighbours think.”

“My brothers Curufin and Caranthir were very clear that Dwarves appreciate honesty more than most. I have shown you every card I hold in this game. The Valar will not aid me,” Maedhros said with an honesty that seemed frankly rash. 

“Yes, well, I’m definitely not talking about _that_ to the King,” Audur said uncomfortably. “He hasn’t asked, and I don’t know what the right of it all is. If Mahal thinks I’ve got that wrong, he can always tell me. He hasn’t said a word.”

“I’ve wondered what he would say, if we could speak with him alone,” Maedhros said, voicing a thought that had come to Fëanor’s own thought from time to time. “Mahal is no stranger to the love of the maker for the thing made, and no friend of the Enemy, who steals the work of others and twists it to his will. But you know I must take the Silmarils my father made, or darkness takes us: Maglor and I together. We cannot hold back and wait.”

“I wondered about that,” Audur said. “You waited long enough during the Long Peace, by all accounts. All through my father’s life, and my grandfather’s.”

“Yes,” Maedhros said flatly. “We waited. We had much to lose. Friends, lands, brothers. Much that was dearly beloved and now is sorely missed. Now we are the weaker for it, and our Enemy is stronger for the time we gave him. But still we must go on, for our Enemy still stands, and our Oath holds, and we have nowhere else to go.”

Audur thought about that for some time,  hands wrapped around her cup of warm ale.  Eventually she said, “But they will not march out across the Gelion, Maedhros, not again. Not so soon. The King has made that plain.” She paused for thought. “How if we sent a small force north in secret to Mount Rerir, what’s left of it? The remaining northern spur could be undermined, I think, and we could bring it down right into the pass, on the heads of whoever happens to be underneath. No need for another battle right away.”

“Close his supply route, and the route for his Easterling reinforcements? Now you’re talking!” Maedhros said. 

And somehow, mysteriously, Maedhros had turned a ‘no’ into something that was, if not a ‘yes’, then something that was like it. Fëanor could only wonder at it. 

* * * * *

That spring, so far as there was any spring under the mirk that rolled endlessly, thick and choking, from the furnaces of Thangorodrim, Maedhros’s small remaining company rode west to the borders of the pitted and scored land where once the River Gelion had run. 

There, widely spaced, every one of them carrying a great starred banner that would have done duty for an entire company, they rode out from the cover of the long concealing mountain-root, as Maglor sang of armies.  As he sang, around each rider there sprang up riders armed and armoured, carrying bright banners flying, until a great host rode out, and behind them another, and another.

To any watching eye, they could have been the whole army of the House of Fëanor, as it had been at the height of the years of peace. Maedhros rode at their head, with Fëanor following him like a wary shadow, waiting for attack. 

All of them hoping that the bluff would not be called, for although this army could fight, its strength was founded on Maglor’s own, and it could not hope to endure assault for long. 

Far to the east, the Enemy’s armies wheeled to face them, but to their relief, did not advance. 

While they rode and kept the eyes of Morgoth’s armies fixed on them, a combined force from Nogrod and Belegost struck at what remained of Mount Rerir, and brought great rocks tumbling down onto an army of Easterlings in the pass behind it.

At the same time, Elros and his Edain, with Círdan and Gil-galad and all their remaining strength, landed from Círdan’s ships, struck again out north and west towards the forts of the Andram wall, driving orcs before him. With them there came a great fierce sea-wind out of the West, bright and blustering, that blew the dark vapors of Thangorodrim coiling and tangling back far into the North, until the fierce light of the Sun shone once more upon lands that had been long in darkness.

At the Pass of Anach, Eönwë, Herald of the Valar, fought a mighty battle against a relentless army of foes. Great bolts of lighting rang fiercely upon the barren rocks that had once held the tall pine-forests of Dorthonion, now broken and burned, as Eönwë and his Maiar forced their way grimly up into the highlands where long ago Angrod and Aegnor had fought and died. 

Great ropes of ivy, hoary with brown roots and shining with dark leaves spread themselves in a vast mat across the rocks, which shuddered under their feet as the Enemy sought to turn the very rock against this foes, and was held back. The rumbling of the rocks echoed far across Beleriand and were heard even in Thargelion. 

Behind them to the south, the lands that had been Dimbar and Doriath and the forests of Brethil lay ruined and shattered. The Rivers of Teiglin and Esgalduin, Mindeb and Aros that had run around and through the woods of Doriath, now flowed into one great basin, torn by songs of power and workings of the Herald of the Valar, his attendants, and the Vanyar of Ingwion into a vast lake. 

To the south, the western end of the Andram Wall above the Gates of Sirion, built with all of the art of Curufin and reinforced with the power of Morgoth, shuddered, crumbled, and at last, fell. 

And Fëanor’s youngest brother, at the head of all his host with the rising Sun golden before him, marched at last across the passages of Sirion into East Beleriand. 

 

* * * * * *

 

There were still years of hard fighting before East Beleriand, Dorthonion and Hithlum could truly be said to have been retaken. There were delays and setbacks in plenty. 

The eastern end of the Andram wall had been cut off from Angband, but it was still strongly held, and must be reduced before Finarfin’s army could join with Gil-galad’s and move North.

There were still dragons lairing in the ruins of Gondolin, and Gondolin was harder to assault than Doriath had been. In the end, much of the Encircling Mountains had to be brought down to eliminate them. Nogrod sent a team of mining engineers to assist with the work. 

Most of the dragons were slain by rockfall, by the power of the storm called by Eönwë and his people, or by Vanyar armed with spears, but five of them, one of them very large, broke away. 

Before they could be stopped they went ravening west and south towards the Falas, which was now largely undefended. The remaining Falathrim, forewarned of their approach by Eagles, took to ships and fled East to the new havens near the Ered Luin, leaving Ossë in his fury to receive the dragons in the Falas. The power of the storm struck against the dragonfire, and by the time the battle was over, there was little left of the Falas, and what was left of the coast was what had once been the northern bank of the River Narog. 

But within five years, the combined host of Vanyar and Noldor had cleared the enemies holding the land behind them, and were moving North under skies that were often starry now at night, towards Maglor’s Gap and the plains of Lothlann. 

 

* * * * * *

 

“It’s time for us to go,” Maedhros said to Audur, one morning at the lookout point that gave the best view north and west towards danger. “The war is moving north at last. We must go with it.” 

“I’m sorry to lose you,” Audur said. “You have been a boon to our defences here. My King will want me to persuade you to stay. But there’s no point my trying, is there?”

Maedhros looked sideways down at her, and shook his head very slightly. 

“I thought not. You’re a king yourself. I can hardly offer you rings or land.”

“I am not. The High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth is Gil-galad.”

“Pfft!” Audur said dismissively. “Only shiftless Elves that pass kingship around lightly would think that reasonable. But your people will follow you even out into the Anfauglith, I suppose. It won’t be pleasant for them. Not much of a reward for their loyalty.” 

Maedhros gave her a sceptical look that was not at all annoyed. “You cannot annoy me into staying, and nor will guilt serve you. There is only one thing that we need, and it is set in the Enemy’s crown. The Silmarils must take precedence over friendship, I fear.”

“Mmm,” Audur said, and turned away. “All right. I’m not so cunning a negotiator as you. I can tell my king I tried, but we could not reach agreement. A pity.” She turned the cats-eye yellow stone upon her arm to catch the light, without looking at him. “Be careful,” she said. “You said you would remember, when I am gone. You can’t do that if you get yourself killed.”

“So far I have proved to have a great talent for not getting killed,” Maedhros told her. “You be careful, too.” 

“Oh well,” Audur said. “As you said, the war is moving North. And _I’m_ not fool enough to go with it.” 

 

* * * * * * *

 

They rode out north a few days later, skirting the mountains through the blackened ruins of Thargelion, under skies that were clearer more often now than they had been since the sons of Fëanor had fled these lands in the aftermath of Nirnaeth Arnoediad, over a hundred years ago. 

It had been thirty-seven long dark years since the hosts of Valinor had come to Middle-earth. Much of the country to the west of the river Gelion was now more sea than land, and the coming of the Sea brought new winds even into lands that had lain long under the Enemy’s hand. 

The mountains near Mount Rerir were largely clear of the Enemy’s creatures now, but they had been shattered, broken and burned and almost unrecognisable. The Bluebell Way across the Ered Luin might, somewhere, still lead across the mountains into the east, but it would be impossible to find the western end of it now, with the land entirely changed. 

They turned west, instead, cautiously and quietly, and rode along what had been the March of Maedhros, moving warily through the ruins of lands once well known and well-beloved. 

The armies of Valinor, with Gil-galad’s smaller forces as their rearguard, were heading north, but they had not yet passed Maglor’s Gap, and the land lay in an uneasy peace, not held yet by either the forces of the Enemy or the hosts of Valinor, most of whom would be far from being friends. 

They passed silently into the hills that ran out west of Mount Rerir unseen, save by the occasional orc, surprised and swiftly slain, and camped warily overnight in the hill-country just to the east of Maglor’s Gap. The next day they passed the Gap and passed in cover of the hills south of Himring, blackened and hideous now, but still showing black and red flags upon the walls. 

They came into the rough hill country that bordered the Pass of Aglon as the day was fading into night and long shadows reached eastwards towards them from the mountains of Dorthonion. There they split into two parties and moved off to search, moving like ghosts through the parched and broken hills. 

Most of the store-rooms, barns, fortifications and shelters of the March had been burned and looted. A handful were infested with orcs, or had become the lairs of beasts. A couple, near Himring, were occupied by families of Morgoth’s Easterling Men. 

But at last in the west, in the rising cliffs near to the pass of Aglon, they found behind a screen of rocks and blackened scrubby bushes, a well-hidden door long sealed. The words that Celegorm had set upon it long ago were still just readable to friendly eyes. 

“Better than camping on the open hillside,” Maglor said with a sigh, as they moved the last of the horses inside, into the rough-walled cavernous space behind the doors that had once been a store-cellar for one of Celegorm’s forts along the pass.

“A good deal better than the open hillside,” Maedhros told him. “Celegorm left this place well-stocked. You don’t want to have to eat orc, or the stuff that they are fed on, either. Trust me on this.” Maglor grimaced.

“Most of the jars are still sound, and we have a granary full of oats,” Mastiel reported to Maedhros, once she had checked through the supplies. “Smoked venison, salt pork and a lot of pickled turnips, enough to last at least five years, I’d say.”

“Years of pickled turnips, and one of Celegorm’s cellars to sleep in.” Maglor said, so unenthusiastically that his father could not help but be amused. “Ah well. Still better than eating orc. Not much left living in these hills, and what there is is surely worse than pickled turnip.” 

“If we ever see Celegorm again, you’d better thank him for his pickled turnips,” Maedhros said, and almost smiled. 

 

* * * * * *

There was nothing that their small force could do against the Enemy’s armies massed before the great fortress-forge of Angband. All they could hope to do was wait in hiding, watch, and be ready when the hosts of Valinor struck, and hope that some fleeting chance might come to come near a Silmaril. 

When they had been in the hills near the Pass of Aglon for a time, and it seemed that there would be no immediate threat there, Fëanor left his sons and went a little North, following the mountain-wall of Ladros, to look again upon the Anfauglith, and to watch for his Enemy across the fields of ash. 

He passed unseen across the blackened plains where armies and dragons were now encamped, and came to the Hill of the Slain where the dead of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had rotted for over a hundred years. The carrion stench and the birds were gone, but so was the grass that had covered the great mound in the days before Thangorodrim’s reeks had hidden the sun. Bones, swords and armour lay jumbled there in the filth with rotting shreds of leather and boots. 

Fëanor looked away from it, discomforted, as the Enemy’s darkness crawled across his armoured spirit, seeking for a way in. An image of Fingon in those last years before the Nirnaeth came back to him. Fingon in shining armour under his blue banner, riding down to Himring to take counsel with Maedhros and his brothers about the great alliance.

Fingon, who had been left behind, had crossed the Ice, who had held the frontier and struck against Morgoth with everything he had to give. Fingon, who had aided the House of Fëanor even to the sacrifice of his life. 

Fingon, unbodied, would have fled to the Halls of Mandos. Surely, he would have been swift enough to do that. Surely he would not have been caught as Denethor of the Green-elves had been caught. 

Fëanor turned from the peaks of Thangorodrim to the North, and began to search the great heap of bones. 

* * * * *

 

He was there for three days, until he was as sure as he could be that neither Fingon’s spirit nor the spirit of any of his knights was trapped there. He had found the shattered remnants of Fingon’s broken bones, detectable as close by blood, his brother’s son, but there was no hint or flicker of the spirit left about them. 

Fëanor was no necromancer, but everything he had learned about existence unbodied told him there should be still some link to be found, if Fingon’s spirit lingered still upon the Hither Shore. There was not. There were only bones, empty and without meaning. 

Fingon had fled to the Halls of Mandos. Fingon, at least, was safe from the Enemy. Fëanor was surprised at the relief he felt at that. 

Something flickered at the corner of his vision, and he looked up to see a figure standing dark and tall upon the hill of bones, a figure familiar, by now, and fearsome. He brought up his spirit-sword. 

_What do you want?_ It seemed the creature had not seen him until that moment. It’s dark outline was looking south towards the mountains, warily. 

“Oh!” it said, apparently surprised. “There you are at last. About time. You are late.”

_ I did not come here for you. _

It stepped back and considered him. “Ah, how delightful. He took the shining thread of you so neatly, and stitched it into the shape he had designed. He used to do such fine work.” 

_ My path is all my own _ , Fëanor told it grimly, although he was no longer sure that it was true. 

“You still believe that! Sad to think he could never manage such refinement now. Ah, it’s a pity you did not come back to us in Angband. We would have made a fine thing of you. But perhaps it was more elegant, as my lord said, to let you sing your own song to our melody. You, and your seven beautiful sons. A pity he could not weave in the mother too, but then, females are so often disorderly.” 

Fëanor struck at it, savage and desperate, and it fell back nimbly. 

“Two left now, I think,” it said. “Not much use to us, I fear, not any more, though they may still work a little mischief, here and there, I suppose. You have done your work, you and your proud vengeful sons, and you did it so delightfully bloodily. You barely needed my guidance. Your instinct for ruin runs deep and true.”

_ I have never served you _ , Fëanor said.  _ My sons have never served you. Not one of us. If we had not held you for so long, the Host of the Valar never would have come here, or if they did, they would have found nothing but bones. _

“We made a pleasing number of bones, you and I.” It turned to the Hill of the Slain, waving a long arm. “I fear my lord’s pretty crows have left little of the flesh, by now. But the bones are a fitting memorial to your fine work.” 

He struck at it again, and it tried to catch the sword in its hand as he swung, and almost held it. Warily, Fëanor jumped backwards. 

“That will be how you are remembered, my lord Fëanor,” it said, and bowed mockingly. “The king who led his people to the Ice then abandoned them. Red blood flowing beside the Sea and in the Thousand Caves. The ships burning in darkness, flame of treachery. The army that came too late and tore itself so delightfully to pieces. Your memorial will be this hill of bones and the curses that the survivors will heap on your name and your sons, forever.” 

It was advancing towards him, dark and terrible. 

“My time has come to gather you up, I think,” it said conversationally. “Yes. You will make a fine addition, once you are set in heavier chains, ones that you will find a little harder to ignore. Chains with barbs to remind you what you have become, and gems to remind you what you were...”

Fëanor stepped back warily. 

“A just doom and no more than thou deservest.” The voice had changed, becoming persuasive and confidential.  He could see what it was trying to do. Yet he still felt it pull at his thought.  He saw the blood red upon the quays of Sirion, the blood of those who had crossed the Ice to avenge his father, the blood of those who had escaped the hill of bones only to die under the swords of Fëanor’s sons.  

“It would be kinder than what the Valar would give to thee...  Thou must see that thralldom is thine only choice, so why give Námo joy?”  The voice swelled, authoritative, and he found his spirit moving involuntarily to the rhythm in it. “We have a good number of jewel-smiths, since thou hast brought us so many of thy friends, but still, Fëanor the thrall, perhaps I will set thee to making jewels to embellish thine own chains.  That might please my lord well, I think.” 

It came inexorably towards him and he forced himself to move back again over the scattered bones.  

“The names they will give thee!” it said, and laughed, a rich golden laugh. “Thee and thy seven sons. Murderers they will say. Child-killers. Child-thieves. Fools, thieves and liars. Each name true and justly earned. And thee they will call worst of fathers, Fëanor of little wisdom, he who traded all his sons for jewels, and failed even at that! It is the truth. Thy punishment has been well-earned; now, submit to it.” 

_ No. _ Fëanor said, and stopped moving backwards.  _ Two of my sons still live. I have not yet failed. I traded nothing. That is a lie. No matter what is said of me, I love all my sons, and they know it.  _

It laughed at him, but Fëanor was not deterred.  _ My sons, whom I love, who love me, held this land, _ he said, and stepped a pace forward with the sword in hand. 

_ They took it from you, and they threw you back beneath the mountain. They stood strong against you through the years. My brother Fingolfin rode out against your lord and gave him seven wounds. Does he limp, even now? I think he does.  _

“A minor affliction, surely,” it said, and laughed scornfully.

_ No _ . Fëanor said and he stepped forward again, burning with an inner flame.  _ My sons held this land against the darkness, my sons and my nephews too.   _ Power was running through his voice.  _  My brother, who loves me, struck my enemy and hurt him sorely. Fingon fought against my enemy nobly, even as he died.  _

“It was a great defeat!” it said and tried to laugh, and yet, the laughter was less full than before “Look upon the hill of the slain!” 

_ Nothing but empty bones. They are not there. You could not hold them. They are gone where you can never touch them.  _ Fëanor said, and certainty was washing through him now, bright as spring water. 

Somewhere to the west, not so very far away, he could still feel the springs of Sirion, where he had died, lost under mountains fallen, but still there, bubbling cold and clear far beneath the rock. He stepped forward, and now his Oath was with him, strong as steel and immovable as granite against the thief of Silmarils, as he had always meant it to be. 

_ You cannot hold me,  _ he said.  _ Your master has thrown himself into this land, mile by mile, league by league, to take it from us. We met his will and we fought him, every step, and no matter how we are remembered, that changes nothing. We have not failed.  _

“You failed!” it said in a voice that was starting to be shrill. “I have slain your kin like sheep. I slew Finrod in dark and despair, in the blackness of his own tower,  I slew him as a wolf, as the darkness grew in Valinor and red blood ran into the Sea...”  

_ No. I call the Sun and Moon upon you, I call the light of the Evening Star that is my Silmaril.  Finrod is in the West beyond your reach, and my sister Lalwen and all my nephews, and thou shalt not speak their names again, Sauron. _

He remembered Melkor as he had been in Valinor, the humble penitent, and very deliberately, he showed Sauron a picture of that, and then a door closed in his master’s face. 

_ I call thee by thy true name, Abhorred!  Thou art naught but a servant. Slave to a master who is wounded and broken, who has spent so much of himself upon the substance of this land that there can be little of him left.  _

He stepped forward again, his spirit flaring bright, the sword pointed directly at his enemy, sharp and deadly, bright with the remembered light of Valinor. The Oath beside him struck like a snake, and his enemy swayed back, golden eyes wide in alarm.

_ I have not failed, and I will not serve thee or thy master, _ Fëanor said with absolute certainty. 

“Oh, very well then!” Sauron said, almost pettishly. “Stay with your sons, if you must! I have enough to do without troubling myself with the last few members of your increasingly ragged house!” 

_ Thou hast work to do indeed, O slave of the jail-crow of Mandos, _ Fëanor said.  _ The hosts of Valinor are coming, Sauron. They are coming for thee. Art thou afraid? Soon thou wilt have thine own chains to wear. _

Sauron looked at him, and for a moment there was a bitter disquiet behind his terrible golden eyes that was strange indeed to see. “Why am I wasting my time here?” he asked himself, and shook his head, a strange boneless movement that encompassed all his body and folded up into the air until he hung there, dark and winged for a brief moment before he took off swiftly across the plain, heading for Thangorodrim.

Fëanor watched him go with a sense of having won a very hard-fought battle. And yet, he had not managed to wound even his enemy’s thrall.  Though he had sent Sauron off with a stinging reproof, he would have been happier if the creature’s words had not touched him.  He should have been stronger against it, and more resolute.    
  
He looked up unhappily at the hill of bones. He could, perhaps, take Fingon’s remains away to give him burial, but alone he could not hope to move all the great army that lay there. His living sons could not risk coming so far out onto the Anfauglith, which was still strongly held by the Enemy, nor carry so many away safely, even if Fëanor spoke with Maedhros to suggest it. And after all, it was only dust and bone, only a remnant, and a memory. 

Fingon’s bones at least were not without honourable company, and though the sky was clouded still with the vapours of Thangorodrim, there was light here, creeping under the ragged southern skirts of Taur-nu-Fuin from Beleriand, no longer under Morgoth’s hand. 

Fëanor reached down and ran unseen fingers through the ash and soil, remembering words learned very long ago, when he had been a child in Tirion, playing in his father’s garden. 

Words from long before he had made gems or swords, words of art simple enough for elf-children singing joyfully in the distant light of Laurelin the Golden.

He took a clod of burned and broken earth and crumbled it gently into dust, speaking words to it as the dust blew across the bones, the broken helms and notched swords. 

And as they had long ago in Finwë’s garden, the seeds that slept still in the filthy ashes awoke, and fed and watered with thought and word, they grew and spread. 

Across the bones, swift and sure, the heart-shaped leaves of the bindweed climbed from bone to leather, spreading determined shoots across fallen shields and broken axes. Around the hill sprang up the tall spires and slim green leaves of the willowherb, the fireweed whose seeds float through the air seeking the places where fire has been, that linger longest in the soil, waiting for fire and light to call them back to life. 

Before long, they began to bloom: the bindweed first, covering the fallen with flowers bright as the moon, and then the willowherb blushing a brilliant delicate rose against the dark burned soil all around, shining glorious and undefeated against the pale bone and the clear triumphant white of bindweed flowers.

Nobody would see the flowers blooming here. No-one would remember them. Fingon and all his people were gone long ago. And yet, the flowers, though brief, were very beautiful. 


	20. The Coming of the Winged Dragons

The few remaining people of the House of Fëanor had passed along the March and into the blackened hills near the mountain-walls of Dorthonion as quiet and secretly as ghosts.  

But coming behind them, the great hosts of Valinor, moving North, had reached what had once been Maglor’s Gap: the widest and easiest route between Angband and Beleriand for armies, whether they were heading north or south.  They were having to fight for it.  

“You don’t want to try some kind of flank attack?” Maglor asked Maedhros, in the damp and gloom of the old storage-cellar, as they watched through the light of the seeing stone Finarfin’s golden banners move north beside the white banners of Ingwion against the black and red banners of Angband.

“I can’t see any way that we could strike a blow that would be felt, can you?” Maedhros said.   “Look at them.  Balrogs. Dragons.  Trolls. Tens of thousands of orcs.  How can he still have so many?  We must have fought some of those same beasts at Unnumbered Tears...”

“I think they’ve grown,” Maglor said. “The size of the scales on them, now!”

“There’s no point trying to tackle those with cavalry — not with what little we have left here,”  Maedhros said, and shook his head helplessly.  “We’ve done our best with with what little was left... afterwards. But you can’t fight a war with fewer than two hundred people.  They’d crush us like a moth, and not even notice us.  If we are to have any chance at the end, we must wait.”

“He could hardly say we haven’t tried. Fingon, I mean.” Maglor said, pulling his cloak closer around him. “You have done everything that could be done with cunning and artifice and strategy...”

“Yes, well. I doubt that he would think that makes up for what we did to his brother’s family,” Maedhros said.  Maglor was silent.  Maedhros leaned back against the rough stone wall, shutting his eyes, as before him in the darkness white and golden banners swayed against the darkness on a wind out of the West.

The fighting raged on into the night, fires and smokes blazing, and lightning cracking brilliantly across a sky half-filled with stars, as Eönwë and his people called up wind and storm to their aid.

When the Sun came up the next morning, she looked down upon a land blackened and bare and scarred anew by war until even the very rocks groaned in agony.  And still the battle raged.

Finarfin had been cautious, until now. Fëanor had seen little sign in him of either Fëanor’s  own passion, or of his brother Fingolfin’s determination.

He was not being cautious now, in the clear morning light.  He was pressing out into the legions of the enemy, his golden banners flying and his people close around him, a steel-edged wedge that cleft through orcs and Men alike, a force before which the few remaining Balrogs fell back in alarm.

Finarfin’s army was smaller than that of the Vanyar.  The Vanyar had their whole people to call on, while most of the Noldor had marched out with Fëanor or Fingolfin, and died upon the Ice or in battles before the sun had risen, in Dagor Bragollach, in Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and in a thousand other skirmishes and hard-fought battles. Now, presumably, they waited in the Halls of Mandos, yearning for their bodies, and receiving little pity for it.

Most of Finarfin’s force were women.  Many of them had followed the example of Nerdanel, Anairë and Fëanor’s sister Findis, and had stayed in Valinor, refusing the call to leave. But they had marched out to war at last for Finarfin, to come to the aid of Middle-earth. By now they were both skilled and deadly.  They had fought for their king across the long miles of Beleriand, and now they marched out onto the blackened plains of Lothlann, where long ago Maglor’s companies had burned and died.  

Fëanor hesitated, watching, caught in indecision.  He wanted to go out to join the battle, to bring what aid he could to Finarfin, who had come very late, it was true, and had been slow, careful and cautious, but had in the end brought all the strength that he could muster against their father’s murderer.

But there was Maedhros, and Maglor, and there was something that seemed terribly vulnerable about them now, the last two of his sons still living.  Fëanor had not stayed with Caranthir or Celegorm. He had not watched over Curufin, or Amrod or Amras.   

When last he had left Maedhros alone, Fëanor had encountered Morgoth’s necromancer servant.  He might still be nearby.  If he left his sons now to aid Finarfin, might some great evil not find them before he could return?  

He resolved to wait.

On Finarfin’s western flank, companies of armoured Vanyar spearmen, led by Ingwion in panoply of white and gold, drove into the great dragons.  They were paying a terrible toll in lives, but slowly but surely, one great monstrous armoured beast and then another began, day by day, month by month to fall.

And behind them, slow but inexorable, the greatest menace to the forces of the Enemy approached. On the heels of the hosts of Valinor, brown and savage and roaring hungrily, capped with foam, came the Sea.

In the foothills south and east of Himring,  Balrogs were trying to raise the land in fire and tumult.  But the Sea was stronger.   Where the rock ran red and white with flame, the Sea poured in, endless and unstoppable, making a vast white cloud of steam and mist that drifted north across the battle, hiding the hosts and their banners one from another.

The Sea was taking the land through which Morgoth had wound his power, rock by rock,  piece by piece, and it fell away into the waves and was lost. And with it, the power of the Enemy too was eaten away.

And now Eönwë and his Maiar came again, through the Gap and North, and soon they were hunting the remaining Balrogs across the field of Lothlann, moving with the swiftness of thought on wings of wind.  

Behind them, the Vanyar were hunting dragons lumbering down towards the approaching Sea and the hungry waves reached out and took them, writhing into steam and darkness.

 

* * * * * *

 

It was months before the battle for the Gap was won, and by then, the winter was setting in.  The host of Valinor did not march North and West for Angband.  They settled in the Gap, and under the shelter of the mountain-wall for the winter, a few leagues to the east of where Maedhros and Maglor were encamped in the mountains on the eastern borders of Dorthonion.  

That winter, when the bitter winds subsided and the snows that Melkor sent down from the North were not too deep to take the horses out to exercise, you could hear them singing in the distance.  Fair voices out of Valimar and Tirion carried faintly down the western winds, singing songs in praise of the stars of Varda in Noldorin and Vanyarin Quenya: not far, and yet, a world away.

Maglor and Maedhros rode out one day before the deep snows had come, with a small escort, and went east a little way until they were able to look north to the hill of Himring, and east to the great camp in the Gap, from which the smoke rose from many fires. There were no horses in the Vanyar camp and so there were few tracks in the snow around it, but inside the perimeter it was busy enough with people coming and going.  

There was no sign of any attack taking place.  Morgoth seemed to have pulled most of his people back to Angband for the winter.

“Better neighbours than the orcs, at any rate,” Maedhros observed.  “They may not care much for us, but still, if they throw the Enemy back, I don’t care what their opinions are...” he breathed a bitter laugh, breath steaming bright on the icy air.  “I wonder if that’s what Thingol thought of us?”

Maglor grinned at him, a flash of teeth from deep within his wolfskin hood.  “Probably!” he said.  “But they’re having more luck than we did.”  He hesitated and ran his hand across his horse’s shaggy neck.  “I was wondering for a good long while if Mother had come. But this close, there’s no question, if she were there, we would know, of course.”

Maedhros stared at him, appalled. “You wouldn’t want her to come _here_?”

“I suppose not. I’d not be eager to explain... the Havens.  She might not forgive us that, even if she was prepared to listen to the rest.  But anyway, she hasn’t come. Anairë came ...”

“Anairë only stayed in Tirion because Eärwen talked her out of leaving with Fingolfin and her children as she had planned.  Our mother stayed in Tirion because she would not go even as far as Formenos with us,” Maedhros said flatly.

“Well, she had argued with Father, of course, and she put more weight on the advice of Aulë and the commands of the Valar than we did.  But so did most of Finarfin’s people, and they are here now.  She has Celebrimbor to think of, too, even if she prefers not to think of us. Perhaps the Valar required her to stay, as they did with Elwing.”

“By all means think that, if you prefer. It’s a more comfortable thought that she might be forbidden than that she chose not to come,” Maedhros said.  “For myself, I think she decided long ago that her work in us was flawed, and with an artist’s ruthlessness, decided to discard it.  That wouldn’t be unlike her.”

Fëanor would have liked to protest at that, but they were perilously close to Angband. For all that the Enemy’s grip running through the land was not the iron fist it had once been, he could not speak subtly mind to mind without opening himself to evil. If he spoke so that all could hear him, then even Maglor could hardly fail to notice, and he had promised Maedhros that he would not speak with Maglor.

And in any case, there was a certain unpleasant creeping likelihood to the idea that Nerdanel might simply have dismissed her children as a flawed creation, like a sculpture cracked in the carving.

Maglor did protest.  “Even if she thought that of us, why would she think it of her grandson? Surely that’s the darkness speaking...”  But his voice sounded unusually thin, and trailed away. There was no conviction in it.   They rode back to their refuge in silence, and around them the Oath coiled thick as dark oil upon water until the light seemed oddly dim.

 

* * * * *

When the snows began to melt and run away, when the sea-winds blew north carrying the clouds away and the Vanyar marched out once again towards the trenches defending the Anfauglith, thin tough grasses began to spring up again, offering grazing for the horses across the hills to the south of their refuge.  Those hills had once looked down across Himlad: now they looked out upon the sea.

Gil-galad’s starred blue banners had not been seen in the battle for the March, or in the fierce running battles that spread across the darkened plains of Lothlann.   

Gil-galad and his people were in the west now, in what was left of Hithlum, which now stood open to the west; open to the wild sea-winds. Nevrast was gone and the mountains of Ered Lómin had fallen.  The Enemy’s armies had pulled back onto the Anfauglith.

But Hithlum was far from deserted. The puzzle of what to do with the remnants of the Edain of Hithlum, and with those who had overrun their land, enslaved them and intermarried with them had been left to Gil-galad, Círdan, Elros and Elrond. It was a puzzle increasingly urgent as Morgoth’s dark powers withdrew from Hithlum, as the winter storms swept in and the land began to crumble into the sea.   

The work kept them busy enough for a long while. When Maedhros called the light into his last seeing-stone, it was rare that that the stone, searching for its lost companions, would find any of  the three in Hithlum in use by their owners.

The Edain had taken a fair revenge for their great losses in Beleriand, but in Hithlum there was less revenge to be taken, and more grief that could surely not be mended within the circles of the world.

When the Spring came, if you looked out south across the new sea that covered what had been Estolad and Himlad, you could see Círdan’s grey ships far out upon the waters, moving to and fro, ferrying survivors east to the new settlements in the south of Ossiriand.

Then, as spring brightened into a ghost of summer, and the Enemy’s beasts came ravening down from the North again, news came from the East.  

They were not the first to hear it.  When Maedhros used the seeing stone, it was trained on the hills nearby, looking for the orcs and trolls that still sometimes ventured near their refuge, or further afield to Lothlann or on the blackened plains of the Anfauglith, or on the gates of Angband, when the will of Morgoth would allow them to be seen, which was not often.

So it was only when the seeing stone, roving in search of its old companions, caught Elrond in Ossiriand at last, looking into  his own stone, that they heard.

“You didn’t know about the attack on the Ered Luin?” Elrond said, his face pale and unhappy in the light of the stone.  “It was a Balrog.” Maedhros stared at him, his  face stony and unspeaking, and after a moment, Elrond went on.  

“Gil-galad thinks it was fleeing the battles in the north, to be so far south and east. It must have crept around the host and southward through Thargelion.  

It was seen when it came to the River Ascar, before it could come to the pass.  There are a good number of our people there now.  So it called on its master, and struck at the land, then ran up into the pass in flames.  The Ascar is a great wide gulf of sea, now, and... and the old pass is gone - there’s a great trench right through the mountains.  Nogrod has vanished.  And Belegost...” he shook his head miserably.   “There were survivors.  Mount Dolmed still stands, and the tunnels that ran into the mountain... some of them held when the mountains shook.  But most of the city... the main halls and the gates...  they fell. Gil-galad and I went after the Balrog, but the land was torn apart. It fled and we could not find it.”

“I see,” Maedhros said, and there was something in his voice that made Maglor look sideways at him, worried.

“Is there any word of Audur, or any of the House of Azaghâl?” Maglor asked.

Elrond shrugged helplessly.  “No word of Audur that I’ve heard yet.  The Dwarves are still digging, those that got out.  Ivaldi has taken command of them: he was away from the city in Thargelion when it struck...  Some of Belegost is still habitable, and I am told they have sent for help from Khazâd Dum.  We sent them supplies. There’s not much more that Elros or I can...”

“Of course,” Maedhros said and bowed his head.  

“If you wanted to come back to Ossiriand, to help with the search...” Elrond began, but Maedhros shook his head.  

“Impossible,” he said.  There was a sick unhappy twist to the corner of his mouth.

“You could send Saeldir, and perhaps a few of the people who have skill with stone?” Elrond suggested tentatively.

“No.”

“It isn’t possible, Elrond,” Maglor said, more gently. “We cannot spare them.”

“Of course,” Elrond said, at once, and looked away, unhappily.  “I must go.  We are moving North again ourselves tomorrow.”

* * * * *

Maedhros went very quiet for a while after the news from Belegost, almost as he had done after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Maglor looked sideways at him, worried, and Fëanor was worried too.  

Then one evening, prompted by nothing that Fëanor could see, Maedhros said abruptly to Saeldir who was standing guard with him.

“I could not send you back to Belegost.”

“Of course,” Saeldir said, a little surprised.  “The Dwarves are quite able to handle rockfalls for themselves, and Khazad-dûm will aid them generously.  I think Elrond only suggested it because he felt guilty about going back to the war in the north himself.”

“I burned their friendship like a candle to keep me from the darkness,” Maedhros said, staring into the night.

“Darkness would not have left them alone if we had not come here,” Saeldir said steadily.  “We came here hunting the darkness, and found it here in plenty. But it’s not our darkness.”

Maedhros shook his head.  “You came to darkness following us. We led you here.”

“That is not how it seems to me,” Saeldir said.  “It came to us.  He was our king that the Enemy killed. It was our city to which the Enemy brought the Unlight. You are our prince to follow and your father was our king to choose. I thought your cause just.  That’s why I came here.”

“But it was not just.” Maedhros said bitterly. “And now you are a kinslayer too. It wasn’t enough to bring all my brothers into the dark with me, I had to drag my mother’s kin into it too.”

Saeldir looked around warily at the night, then turned to Maedhros, and made a helpless gesture with the hand that was not on his sword-hilt. “I don’t blame you. I take the blame for what I have done in Middle-earth upon myself.  I could have turned back.  I could have refused your command at any moment, gone to Celebrimbor, or to Gil-galad.  I did not.  Because it’s not your darkness, in the end, Maedhros. It belongs to the Enemy.”

“The darkness feels like it belongs to me,” Maedhros admitted, and Fëanor would have liked to speak, to gather the darkness to himself and take it from his eldest son, if only he had known how to do it.

Saeldir said,“That’s how it works.  It makes you think you have no right to light, but it’s only another of his lies.  You told me that.”

“So I did,” Maedhros said.  “Before Doriath.  But now it is so very dark. And do those who slay their kin and lead their own kinsmen to kill for gems deserve anything but darkness everlasting?”

“I think so,” Saeldir said.  He shook his head in bafflement. “Maedhros, perhaps you could go in and sit by the fire for a while?   Angruin and I can keep the watch. There’s nothing stirring out here, and we need you well and rested more than we need one more person on guard. ”

******

 

The battles upon the fields of Lothlann were over.  The Anfauglith itself had been retaken, and the enemy beaten back.

Once again, as it had been before the Dagor Bragollach, Angband lay under siege, though by now there was little south of the Anfauglith that had not been taken by the Sea. Círdan’s ships sailed from the new settlements of the Falmari in southern Ossiriand, up the coast of Thargelion and clear across to a makeshift harbour in the centre of what had been Maglor’s Gap, where now the waves washed coldly over the vast bare shapes of dragon-bones.  

Upon the Anfauglith, the Vanyar, the Noldor under Finarfin, the remnant of the Eldar of Middle-earth and the Edain under Gil-galad and Elros now were encamped, as once long ago the companies of Fingolfin and Maedhros had been encamped there.  

But now the plain that spread wide to the south of Angband was far from green and fair, as it had been then. It was barely a plain at all.

It had long been burned and blackened, but now it was scored with trenches, rents and tears so deep that the unwary could fall and be lost, and was in places piled high with the black and sulphur-stinking rocky debris that had run from the heights of Thangorodrim far out onto the plain at the Enemy’s command.

Around the Hill of the Slain, a legion of armoured orcs had fallen to the lightstorm of the oncoming Vanyar host.  The Hill itself had fallen as the ground itself had moved and writhed in agony beneath the combat.   It was hard to tell the bones of the Fallen of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad now from the many others that were strewn around them.

The war had moved to the very gates of Angband, and Maedhros and his people moved with it, moving like ghosts of the captains of the first Host of the Noldor through the broken land, warily lest the horses should slip on the rough terrain.  The torn land did at least mean that it was easy enough for their small force to lie hidden from those who were not allies, as well as those who were true enemies.

But the gates of Angband were closed.  Sometimes, if the wind blew the right way, you could hear the sound of Elven singing under the shadow of the mountain, close by the gates. Maglor shook his head at it, recognising a familiar sound.

“That won’t work. We tried that long ago!” he said to Carnil, who happened to be sitting on a rock nearby.

“I remember,” Carnil said. “You’d think they’d know that already.”  

They were watching over the horses while they grazed. The horses could not be left unattended, even in the places where the grass was starting to grow again now the days were mostly light again. Thangorodrim rarely gouted out such smokes and steams as it had done for years, but the ground was treacherous and orcs and goblins still crept through the shadows in the old trenches and the rocky clefts.

“There may be nobody left to tell them,” Maglor said. “The people who are with Gil-galad now must be from Gondolin and Nargothrond, mostly: I suppose they would not recall what we did on Ard-Galen in those days. But if they keep that up, they are going to... ah.”

A low menacing rumble announced that Thangorodrim had moved in its sleep, and the singing stopped abruptly. The horses’ heads went up as the ground shuddered, and Maglor and Carnil with the other watchers hurried to reassure their mounts.

“They’ll end up waking the mountain, you were going to say?” Carnil suggested, once her horse had stopped rolling his eyes warily.  

“Something like that,” Maglor said. “Now they know.  Let’s hope not too many were hurt.”   

The other horses had moved a little south away from the rumbling, but Carnil’s had found a little trail of fresh grass from a gap in the rocks, and Maglor’s horse had followed her, so they were a little away from the other elves now.

Maglor looked at Carnil across the long shaggy brown neck of his horse, and frowned.  “You haven’t thought of joining them?”

“It has occurred to me,” Carnil admitted, looking wary. “Particularly when eating pickled turnips. But there’s no point dwelling on it. They wouldn’t have me.”

“Elros might be able to arrange something,” Maglor said absently, looking away towards the three-horned peak of Thangorodrim. “You still have something left to lose, and your experience would surely be useful to them. If you wanted to...”

“I swore my allegiance to you, _my lord_ , not your uncle Finarfin,” Carnil interrupted him.

“You, and all ten of the rest still free and living...  You hardly knew what you were getting yourself into at the time.”

“No more did you,” Carnil retorted.

“If I could find a way to get out of it, I would,” Maglor said. “I’ve thought of it... you all know I’ve thought of it, and not only when eating pickled turnips.  But I can’t. And if I could, I...  I don’t think I could leave Maedhros to it.  I hope I wouldn’t do that again, even if I had the choice.  But as I can’t, there’s no point fretting about it.”

“Well then,” Carnil said, as if that settled the discussion. “No more can I leave you to it.  I doubt any of Maedhros’s people would either, not even Mastiel, for all she’s not a kinslayer.”

“It’s my Oath, not yours.  It’s not the same. Elrond would help, you’d only have to go to him.”

“Your brother would not allow it,” Carnil said. “He said Saedir could not go to Belegost.  So did you.”

And that was true, though Fëanor himself could not see the point in it. The small band of Elves who still followed Maedhros and Maglor were hardly likely to help them win a Silmaril: they were far too few to be an effective fighting force, and Maedhros hardly needed all of them to help him with his horse and gear.  If the gems were to be won, they would have to be won by Fëanor and his sons in person, or not at all.

Maglor seemed to agree with that, though he did not quite say so.  He became very busy untangling a small knot in his horse’s mane and did not look at Carnil.

“I could mention you leaving to Maedhros once you had gone,” he suggested. “He isn’t at his best, just now.”  

“Nor are you,” she said unhappily. “Maglor, I don’t have so many friends left alive, either.”

“If I ordered you to go.” Maglor suggested, half-heartedly.

“If you ordered me to go, I’d go.  I’d have to, wouldn’t I? You’re the one with the power in your voice.  But if you want us gone, you will have to order it,” Carnil told him, her face unyielding. “I’ve followed you this far.  I’ve killed enough times for you.  If I turn away now and say, oh, please, Elros, help me hide the blood that’s on my hands, help me desert my lord — or even worse, if I ask _you_ to ask him —  what does that make me? If I were going to turn my coat, I would have done it at the Havens. The House of Fëanor _is_ all I have left.”

“And so we are all ensnared together,” Maglor said looking at the distant black peaks of Thangorodrim again.  “Here we are, back again outside the walls of Angband. Outside for now, anyway, for as long as the siege holds this time...  I wonder how many thralls are still alive inside there, of all the many who stood with us last time. I wonder if they wish they had fled when they had the chance.”

Carnil looked at him unspeaking for a long time, until he turned to look back at her, then she very deliberately set one hand upon her sword-hilt, and with the other tapped the small silver flask of miruvor upon her belt.

“Hm,” Maglor said and put his own hand on his sword-hilt, to call on the virtue within it against dark thought. “A fair point.” She poured him a measure of miruvor and he drank it in one gulp.

Carnil said “Here we are, with the grass growing green again — well more or less green, even if it is a bit yellow and straggly —  and the hosts of Valinor at last before the gates. Even if they did bring a rockslide down.  Maedhros promised us no more kinslaying, and we still have an Enemy. Why should I not fight Morgoth for you, rather than your uncle?”

“Because there are only eleven of you left,” Maglor said bleakly. “I can do very little to protect you.  A prince who can do nothing for his people seems somewhat pointless.  Maedhros would say so, if he could have a day or so without the darkness to think about it properly.”

Carnil ducked her head and gave him an uncomfortable grin.  “I don’t think any of us got into this so that you could protect us,” she said. “But I’d still rather have you than some new-minted lord of Valinor between me and a Balrog.”

Maglor made a faint huff of laughter.  “I’d rather have Maedhros,” he said. “But if he’s busy, I will do my best to fill in for him.”

“Anyway, you need us.  You’d be hopeless if you had to clean your own boots and repair your own gear,” Carnil told him.

“A foul calumny.  I’ll have you know I once made a pair of boots and walked all the way to Valimar from Tirion in them.  And back again.”  Which, Fëanor remembered, was true, although he had only done it for a bet.

“There is no limit to your talents!” Carnil said smiling.  “But I would still prefer to leave the Balrogs to you. I’ll stick to orcs, and looking after your horse-tack and your boots.”

“It’s a terrible waste of your skill,” Maglor said seriously.

“There is so little call for teapots, in war,” Carnil said reflectively. “It’s a waste of your skills and your brother’s, and a long time since Panonis has had an orchard, or Roquenon has made cheese. He’s wasted a good many skills, our Enemy.  Even Angruin is without a forge, now.” She shrugged. “At least there is Ecetion.”

“A blessing on Ecetion and his excellent socks,” Maglor said.  He looked over at the other horses some way away. “We had best join them,” he said to the horses.  “You’ve had the best of the grass here by now, and if we linger, the orcs I can see in the shadow up there on the ridge might finally get up their courage to attack us.”

 

* * * *

Something that was recognisably a faint shade of the autumn that had once swept golden across the long grass of Ard-Galen came, and after it the snow, and still  the walls of Angband stood strong and silent, as they had stood through all the Long Peace.  They retreated back past Ladros to the shelter of the Pass of Aglon for the winter.  There was little choice about that: the Hosts of Valinor were supplied to hold the field in winter, but Maedhros’s people were not, and there would be no Silmarils won by freezing to death in a ditch before the walls of Angband.

With spring they returned to a camp near the Gates of Angband, and to waiting.  This time the spring upon the Anfauglith was more like a real spring, with the sun shining and bright grass springing with almost the old green.

As the swift days lengthened into summer, red poppies sprang up everywhere across the great expanse of the Anfauglith.  

It must have been some new spell of the Maiar who had come with Eönwë that had brought them, for Ard-galen had never been a place of poppies before.  But now the delicate red silken flowers lifted up their heads from broken earth and trench and ash, and swayed, numberless, from the crumbling remains of Dorthonion-that-was clear across to the Gates of Angband in the faint warm wind that came blowing Northwards from the wide new Sea.

Maedhros and his people were not far from the Gates, when the end of the waiting came at last.

The day had been quiet, broken only by the sound of faint voices from the camps of Valinor.  They had seen nothing of the servants of the Enemy for some time, though Thangorodrim had lately begun to pour forth its vapours once more, and the sky above the dark peaks of the mountain was a deep and dirty grey, with sulphurous yellow edges where the winds of Manwë whirled against it and were thrown back.

There was a great grinding noise, more to be felt than heard. The ground shuddered beneath them, as Maedhros and his people came to their feet.

Then someone shouted, pointed, and there was something odd about the familiar three-peaked shape of Thangorodrim, something that moved, and extended, and finally, impossibly, took wing.

A dragon. A winged dragon. It was so vast its black wings almost blotted out the sky: a mountain in flight.

Maedhros was caught into immobility, staring up at it with eyes filled with horror.

Maglor was not.  “Retreat! Retreat!  Take cover!” he called, in a voice of power that took them all, horse and rider and Fëanor too, and flung them back, desperately fleeing across the poppy-filled plains as above them darkness arose in might and blocked the light of the sun.  The air was filled with the harsh stink of sulphur, and waves of terror beat, intangible, out of Angband.

From the Vanyar camp not far away behind them came the thin sound of screaming, but from the walls of Angband behind them as they fled, a darker note echoed. Great drums were beating, and a cry had gone up; both a name, and a battle cry.  Fëanor could pick out the words.

“Ancalagon! Ancalagon the Black!”  


The great dragon beat its wings, once, twice, three times, and the thunderclap of them shook the air.  Then it opened its great mouth, and upon the red poppy-fields of the Anfauglith it poured forth terrible flame.

Beside it another flame blazed, and yet another: like the rivers of fire of Dagor Bragollach, but greater, a flaming terror against a darkened sky. The movement of wings in the darkness baffled the eye: it was impossible to say how many of them there were, but they were many: armoured, clawed, and at their head flew the greatest of them all, in scales of black steel.  
  
The dragons stooped upon the hosts of Valinor like eagles, but vastly, impossibly greater. Where falcons would have extended talons, the dragons burned.  
  
None could stand against them.

But the Anfauglith was not the empty plain of Dagor Bragollach. The trenches scored across it, the pits and hills piled from the spoil, the old black lava flows — all of them offered cover and broke the terror of the flames.

Maedhros was calling words to the sky for water as he rode, and Fëanor joined him.  Not far away, he could feel Maiar and Vanyar doing the same.

Maglor, holding on to his horse with his knees, had managed to pull his harp from its bag, and as they ran, he called music from it and began to sing. His strong golden voice rang out across the torn and broken land.  

Maglor had made this song after Dagor Bragollach, when his wife had been lost, and most of his great companies of riders had died in flame.  The song was a lament, but written to the rhythm of a running horse, and in answer to it, even the darkened sky began to weep.

Clean grey clouds and white sea-mist were sweeping north from the Sea, and under cover of the rains and mists, the proud hosts of Valinor fled, Sindar, Noldor and Vanyar mingled together, heedless of who was who, while beneath their feet the ground shook, and high above, the dragons roared.

 

* * * * *

 

The Fëanorian retreat went only as far as the pass of Aglon and Celegorm’s store-rooms there.   Almost all the small force survived: they had lost only two people and three horses in their headlong retreat. Under the circumstances, it was at least almost certain that Tautamion and Saeldir had been slain swiftly, and had not been taken into Angband. Tautamion with his wooden foot had, in the end, lived longer than anyone had expected.

They sang the lament for them, as they had done so very many times before.

The Hosts of Valinor in their headlong haste went further than Fëanor and his sons.   Ingwion and many of the Vanyar fled the dragonfire from the skies west into the Ered Wethrin, past the ruins of Barad Eithel.  Finarfin, Eönwë and the remainder of the Host of the West, Vanyar, Noldor, Sindar and Edain together, fled swiftly east and then south to the new borders of the Sea.  They encamped beside what was left of the River Gelion.  Elrond and Elros had been among the people furthest from the Gate, and they and the Edain had escaped with few losses.

The dragons did not follow.  They could be seen, sometimes you crept to the edge of the Anfauglith and looked North into the darkness, swooping low before the walls of Angband, now and again breaking the darkness with red flame.  But they did not, as Fëanor had at first feared, come swooping south beyond the Anfauglith.

“I wonder if they cannot fly so far?” Maedhros wondered, a month or so later, as they watched the dragons flying, looking North from the shelter of the mountain-borders of Ladros. “Surely there must be a limit to how far even those mighty wings can carry a beast of that size?”

“I hope they can’t,” Maglor said. “But even if they can’t go far from Angband, they have set us all a pretty puzzle.  How can we hope to attack a land that is defended from the sky like that?”

“Archers, perhaps?” Maedhros speculated, looking at the faint dark shapes that drifted through the gloomy sky. “Perhaps we should have trained with the bow rather than the spear and sword.”

“Too late now,” Maglor said. “We only have a few hunting bows, and who knows how far we’d have to go to find suitable wood for bows and arrows, now? And yet again, we are too few. Perhaps Círdan can do something with his bowmen.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, and said nothing more, though in his mind you could see as bright and clear as day, the memory of the long ranks of the armoured horse-archers of Hithlum, and Fingon, their leader, who had driven back Glaurung, the father of fire-drakes, with his arrows. Hithlum had always been stronger in archery than Himring and the March.   

If the host of Valinor had come sooner, those archers might still have lived to ride out against the winged dragons, if Morgoth had had time to breed such monstrosities at all.

 

******

Eönwë found a different answer to the dragons.   He called upon the aid of Thorondor, King of Eagles, and his people, and among a strong company of his attendant Maiar, he marched out into the North, calling upon a storm-wind from the Sea, with lightning in his hand like a memory of Manwë himself.

The great eagles were more nimble than the  dragons, and they were brave.  They struck at the dragons, six or seven against each one, while the thunder rolled to shake the ground, and light speared up at the dragons from Eönwë’s bright hand.  

But the dragon-fire blazed hotter, and their mighty scales were hard as steel.  One dragon fell, shrieking, and crashed with a great sound into the Anfauglith, but there were many to avenge it.  Eönwë was beaten back, and the Eagles fled, screaming, back to the Sea and the safety of the Ered Luin.

The next attack, as the world was rolling over from what should have been summer into autumn again, was sleep.   The Vanyar, with their prince Ingwion at their head, marched east from the Ered Wethrin, and north and west from  from Lothlann, singing. Maedhros and Maglor, hearing the singing from afar, went out to aid them, going  cautiously, on foot in the dragon-armour of Belegost with an escort to guard them and help if they should exhaust their strength.

But the Enemy had learned, in the immensity of his malice, since Lúthien had cast him into slumber.  The dragons were armoured against song, as Fëanor had armoured his own spirit against the works of the Enemy, and they dived upon the Vanyar singers with a terrible ferocity.

Then one ship-sized beast caught sight of the sons of Fëanor with one vast blazing eye. It  turned, massively, in the air towards them, and began ponderously to dive.  Maedhros whirled, searching urgently for cover, but there was no hill or dell within reach that could hope to offer shelter against the full force of an oncoming dragon, nor was there time to raise the land.  The dragon’s mouth was opening, and Fëanor prepared to hurl himself up at it.

Next to him, Maglor screamed a single word, his eyes wide and white around the edges with fear.  All around him were gripped by it.

The word, though there was little art to it, only raw force and terror, caught the dragon too.  Like every listening thing within hearing it was held enspelled, bound into immobility.  

But the dragon was already moving. For what seemed a very long moment, it hurtled down towards them, faster, faster, and then, straight as an arrow, flew close above their heads and ploughed head-first into the ground behind them, flipped over, and crumpled into a massive heap of broken, burning wings and scales.

******

It was a good while, after that, before Maglor could speak again, and longer still before he could sing.  His last eleven people had to turn to Maedhros for their orders, as his brothers’ people all had done before them. But Maglor had time to rest, that autumn, for there was little that could be done from the ground, and by midwinter, his voice was golden again.  


After the Vanyar singers had been driven back by dragonfire, the Eagles came again, in smaller numbers, but with grim persistence, week after week, raid after raid, striking with speed at the eyes and bellies of the dragons.  Three more they killed, and then the ice and snows returned again, and the dragons retreated from the skies to their mysterious roosts within Angband.  

But they were not gone.  Usually, one could be seen perched atop Thangorodrim like a vast black crow.  The Eagles mobbed them, but did not dare approach too close for fear of orc-arrows.   As the snows retreated, the dragons began to float out again across the Anfauglith, armoured and flaming.

*******

 

The siege held for another six months.  Then the Valar made their next move.

Maedhros and Maglor were encamped in the hills near Ladros.  That was the closest anyone could come to Angband now, without coming into the land that had fallen under the shadow of the wings of dragons.  They had left the horses and the few tall swift hounds that still ran with them with a few people to care for them in the Pass of Aglon, where there was grass, and where the horse would not be terror-stricken by the sound and scent of dragons passing.

To the south, above the Sea, the starlit night sky was paling to a golden dawn as the Sun began to approach the eastern mountains.  In the North, dark clouds hung as usual over Angband and the Anfauglith, with dragons sliding through them. Fëanor, Maedhros and the Elves on guard were watching them, though they had become almost used to the sight by now.

There was one star in the West that did not pale in the growing dawn.

One star, bright, that grew brighter yet.

A star that was coming closer, brilliant above the Sea with all the lost, beloved and familiar light of the fallen Trees of Valinor.

And beside it flew an army of the sky.  Not Eagles only, but an uncountable, impossible mass of birds of every kind, large and small,  and the light shone on the white wings of the seabirds along the shore as they sprang up to join them, and with them was the morning on a sunlit wind from the sea.  

They fell upon the dragons in fury; too many, too small and swift to be burned or crushed or bitten.  And from the small shining ship Vingilot, which swung so nimbly around them that the dragons could not turn fast enough to face it, fired forth barbed, glittering harpoons, like bolts of lighting gemmed with diamonds.

The harpoons struck, and a dragon screamed, a great shrill trumpeting that rang out terrifying across the plain, and then was cut short.

A dragon fell from the sky, encased in birds, and then another, and north from the hills, Elves and Men rushed eagerly to finish them.

In that hour the great dragon, Ancalagon the Black arose from Thangorodrim, and he flew flaming across the the plain, hunting Eärendil, for his fury was very great.

Vingilot, tiny, glittering, swung about his massive head, too swift to be caught, and as Thorondor and his Eagles battered about the great dragon’s eyes, Vingilot dived before the dragon’s face, dived between its front legs, and as the Dragon struck out in fury with its claws and the left foreleg was stretched fully ahead, it  fired a shining harpoon into the chink in the armour in the hollow behind the leg.

The dragon, as great as a mountain, choked in midflight, its wings suddenly stiff and contorted.  Then its long body twisted like molten metal fallen into water.  It crashed down upon Thangorodrim, upon the very Gate of Angband, and burst into a great fire that shook the ground for a moment and then burned away and died.  

And so the Gate was broken, and the Mountain fell.  The mountain walls of Angband that had stood strong through all those long years of pain and misery were breached at last, and the hosts of the West came flooding in, unstoppable as the Sea, and the Enemy’s servants turned and began to flee in terror and disorder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who wants to know what Nerdanel was really up to and why she didn't come to the War of Wrath, details are here: [The Eldar Who Were Faithful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803273)


	21. Victory in Middle-earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth is chained and the thralls of Angband emerge.

The mistake they made was to overrate the enemy’s courage. It was the mistake they had made all along, in a way. They had assumed that Morgoth would fight. 

They had thought that he, who had been mightiest of the dwellers in Arda, long ago, when Fëanor had shut the door against him, would at the last come forth from his gate to battle, and that the challenge would be to bring him down without dying in the attempt.  That was what Maedhros had planned for so carefully.  

Morgoth did not come forth. Morgoth was not seen in the battle for the Anfauglith, or when the mountain was broken and the Gates fell, and the host flooded into the halls and dungeons of Angband over shattered stone through choking clouds of dust. 

Maedhros led them swiftly to Morgoth’s great dark hall, which still stood strong, for all that the Gates and entrance-ways were broken and stood open to the sky — but Morgoth was already gone. Down, down he fled, into the deepest of his mines, although they only learned that later. Eönwë was on his heel and Ingwion of the Vanyar must have been close behind them, for he was with the prisoner when he was brought out in chains. 

Neither Fëanor nor his sons saw the moment when Morgoth, deep in the dark beneath them, sued for peace and pardon.  But they all felt the moment when his will finally broke. Morgoth’s will and essence was woven through the land: earth, rock and mountain. Even the Vanyar must have become accustomed to the feel of it. Fëanor and his people had lived side by side with it for so long, that it had grown around them. 

The tension snapping was like the breaking of a great chain, the feeling of being freed from a restraint impossibly heavy, and yet so accustomed that it had been almost possible to pretend it was not there at all. 

That might have been the moment when his feet were hewn from under him, or perhaps it was the moment when the chain Angainor bound him, or when his iron crown, robbed of its Silmarils and beaten into a collar by the Maiar of Aulë, was set about his neck. Fëanor did not know. He was not there. He, and his sons came, as always, too late. 

And when that moment came, when the chain broke and he who had named himself King of the World submitted his will at last,  there was no time for regret, or for revenge.  The walls of Angband began to crumble, and there was no choice but to turn and run, up out of Angband into the light of the Sun, where great flocks of birds turned and wheeled against the sky that was pale grey now with clouds. The reeks of Thangorodrim had blown away. High above, the ship Vingilot hung against the sky, small swift-moving clouds blowing past her prow like waves. In the stern of the great ship, Eärendil could just be seen, a faint figure, crowned with the shining Silmaril, looking down upon the fallen dragons and the dust-stained Elves and Men scrambling desperately from the wreck above them.

 

* * * * * 

Fëanor looked up at Eärendil in that hour, standing high above the mountain on his ship of light, with mixed feelings. Eärendil was the victor of a great battle. He had done more against Morgoth, Fëanor thought, than anyone else of all that great host. And yet he was forbidden by the Valar ever to set foot again on Middle-earth, and so, obedient, he would not do so. 

Eärendil’s children were far below, among the Men and Elves.  They had not entered Angband, and stood a good distance away from the ruin, under the blue-starred banners of Gil-galad, small figures yet to Fëanor, clearly recognisable. They had become great warriors, and yet, they were still young, by any standard but that of Men. 

Fëanor saw them look up and high above, see their father in his hour of victory, for the first time since their childhood. A distant figure crowned by the star that was Fëanor’s Silmaril, doomed to travel the sky, too far away to speak with or to touch. 

And Fëanor thought that the Valar could sometimes practice a form of cruelty that seemed as absolute as Morgoth’s, in their world of law, of good and evil, that turned obedience into a kind of slavery. He wondered if any of them recognised that cruelty, that limitation, for what it was. He was fairly sure that Aulë, for all so-admirable talents and abilities, never would see it. He would see the light and dark, never the half-shades or the colours. 

But perhaps Eru could. Eru, who had seen Aulë’s one diversion from his allotted path, and had not let him destroy it in repentance, who had instead taken the work of Aulë’s rebellion and had given it the spark of the Flame Imperishable to allow the Dwarves to become makers in their turn. Eru, who had taken even the rebellion of Melkor and made from it snowflakes and fireworks.

Perhaps Eru could see it. Fëanor hoped so. 

That was one reason why Fëanor could never have remained Aulë’s pupil. There were other reasons, most of them, considered in retrospect, very bad ones. Pride, arrogance, obstinacy, impatience. But he was inclined to think that the reason that was centred on independence of thought had endured better than the rest. 

The Oath squirmed and clawed at him, and half-absently he threw it back, in the way that had become habit. It was his Oath, after all. He would obey it only as he wished.   Maglor and Maedhros were staring up at the Silmaril, too. It was not so easy for them. But after a moment, Maglor  blinked and pulled away, and put his arm around his brother’s to pull him further from the crumbling mountainside, down into a gully that led them a little away from Angband and the hosts of Valinor.  After a moment, Maedhros too shook his head in a whirl of red braids and his eyes came back into focus, as they joined the little knot of people wearing Fëanorian stars awaiting them.

* * * * * 

  
Where the great dragon had hit the mountainside and broken it in his fall, great splits and ruptures had opened all down Thangorodrim’s great black sides. Flame and poison poured out for a while, belching into the sky, to be blown away far into the icy north by the wind from the sea.  The sun was shining in a sky of deepest blue. 

Vanyar and Maiar were working across the mountainside, moving in ordered companies, singing songs filled with art. They were working to calm the anger of the mountain, to hold the earthquake still. Morgoth himself might now be held in chains, but part of him ran through every stone of Angband and beyond into what was left of Beleriand. Morgoth was angry and even the rocks knew it. 

And then the first of the thrall appeared, at the mouth of one of the new openings torn into the rock. Thin and scarred, soot-encrusted and filthy, terrified, blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight. 

They looked almost like orcs at first sight, except that they were much thinner, unarmoured and unarmed. Across the mountainside you could see the hosts of the Valar, Men and Elves, wary after so many years of terrible war, reach for their weapons as the thin bodies and worn faces appeared pale beneath the soot and so thin that every bone and muscle could be seen. 

And then, the moment when they knew: these were not new enemies. They were friends, lovers, sisters, parents, children. So many Elves who had been lost over the years, enslaved in the endless dark of Angband. You could see now that they were not orcs, for the tears ran down their faces, making tracks in the dirt. 

Elves who had once been Sindar, who had been Falathrim of the coast, or Laiquendi of the deep woods, and above all, and the greatest number of those whose faces were turned to the newly blue sky, those who had once been Noldor. 

There were faces there, almost unrecognisable from long grief and hard labour, that had sailed with Fëanor in ships to Losgar, who had walked with Fingolfin to Middle-earth across the Grinding Ice. Faces of those who had built the white tower upon Tol Sirion, had lived in joy in Nargothrond or Gondolin, those who had been the last defenders of Dorthonion and of Hithlum. Faces that the people of Beleriand had last seen in joy at the great festival, Mereth Aderthad, by the pools of Ivrin when the Sun was young. 

They walked and climbed out of the dark places, out of the dungeons, the mines and the factories, up at last to look out over a land changed beyond recognition, lost beneath the Sea.

The Elves of Beleriand were moving among them, weeping. Trying to answer their questions: where is our lord Fingon? Where is King Thingol? Where is Finrod Felagund, our bright lord of the caves? Can we go home now? To Doriath, to Hithlum, to Nargothrond, to Dorthonion? Can we go home to Tirion?

And to Maedhros and Maglor, one after another, worn and exhausted, pale from endless darkness, scarred by whips and chains and bent after long, long toil, came the people of the House of Fëanor. 

There were those who had been captured before ever the Sun rose, those who had been taken at the battle of Sudden Flame, or the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and those who had been stolen unawares during the Long Peace and the long wars that had followed it. 

We knew that you would come for us, Lord, they said to Maedhros. He could not answer them, except with tears, and Fëanor envied him, for the dead cannot weep. 

* * * * * 

 

There were far too many people on the plains of Anfauglith now for Círdan’s ships to be able to transport them all, even though, now, it was possible to sail clear from Círdan’s new-built quays in the remnant of what had been Ossiriand, clear all the way to what had been the pass of Sirion. The mountains that Morgoth had moved into the pass had crumbled and slipped into the sea, re-opening the great pass where Finrod’s tower had once stood, but it was was now flooded deep with seawater. The remnants of the Encircling Mountains slipped every day further beneath the water. 

But neither the armoured hosts and the freed slaves could stay where they were, even for a little while. Morgoth had wound his power through the Anfauglith for too long.  Now the Enemy was defeated and chained, it was crumbling into the sea, cracking and tearing.  Sometimes great vents opened, filled with flame or sulphurous steam.

The Host of the Noldor was on the move already, going east to make a camp somewhere where there would be food and water, where arrangements could be made for the wounded, the weak and the freed prisoners. Or at least, for those prisoners who had once been of the people of Fingolfin, or from Gondolin or Doriath, or who had once lived in the lands of Finarfin’s sons in Dorthonion. 

The company of the Sons of Fëanor had gone from a hundred or so well-armed and provisioned soldiers, to thousands. Many of Morgoth’s slaves had been stolen from the house of Fëanor. Most had suffered horribly, and now had nothing: pale shadows of the skilled craftspeople that they had once been. Even the most valuable workers had not been fed in the last desperate few weeks of the war, as it became clear that Angband would fall. Even those physically uninjured were often so sunk in fear and horror that they could do little to help themselves.

They watched, sitting in the rubble around Maedhros’s few remaining banners, as the Host of Valinor began to move away. The Vanyar and Noldor did not attack the House of Fëanor, but they did not offer it any help, either. 

Maedhros looked around at the skeletal, half-naked people around him despairingly, and shook his head at Maglor. “She isn’t here,” he said, half statement and half question.  There was no sign among them of anyone who might once have been Maglor’s wife. 

“I hoped for that,” Maglor said quietly.  “She must have died. Perhaps I had a little luck left after all.” 

Maedhros stared for a long moment East, clearly wondering if Belegost would be willing or able to help at all — if he could, somehow, get through to the Dwarves, who after all, had more than enough troubles of their own — when from the nearest flank of the Noldor host, a group of heavily-loaded wagons appeared, heading towards them. The drivers were Men, from their height and breadth, and they were wearing badges of blue flecked with stars. 

“Surely that cannot be help from Gil-galad?” he asked Maglor, pointing. Maglor looked up, his arm around the thin, broken body that was all that was left of a very fine horseman, and smiled in relief as the wagons came in clearer view out from the rough ground and jagged rocks.

“No!” he said. “That is not Gil-galad. That is Elrond.” 

It was Elrond, and with him, unaccompanied by any of his own people, was Celebrimbor. He was wearing an expression of grim determination, and the star of Fëanor on his shoulder proudly beside the blue sky and stars of Gil-galad. He strode up to Maedhros, who straightened in surprise, and took his hand. 

“I was not expecting to see you!” Maedhros said, grasping Celebrimbor’s hand with enthusiasm. “You are a most welcome sight! And Elrond too, of course.”

“Morgoth has fallen,” Celebrimbor said, seriously. “It’s a new world. I thought it was time to set aside old quarrels. These are my people, too. And you are my family.” 

Maedhros looked at him in wonder. Maglor said nothing, but stood up carefully, and hugged him. 

Fëanor had not seen his grandson since the Havens. He had grown to look very much like his father, but he had a stronger look about him, somehow, as if he had been tested hard, but not beyond his limit. 

Once they had got the water-barrels in place and everyone had at least had some bread, cheese and dried fruit, Elrond set his Men to giving out clothes and shoes. Maedhros’s original company made sure that they got to all those who needed them most. 

“You said the Vanyar Host are doing... what?” Maglor asked, in bafflement, once they had a moment to speak again.

"The Vanyar are going to walk back to Aman, across the Grinding Ice,” Celebrimbor told him again. “That’s why they are moving West.”

Maedhros raised an astonished eyebrow.  Maglor stared. “Has anyone told them what the Grinding Ice is  _ like _ ?” he asked. “They came in ships! Why aren’t they going home in them?” 

Celebrimbor shook his head, looking still a little embarrassed, although why that should be Fëanor could not begin to guess. Even serious Celebrimbor could not consider himself responsible for the unaccountable behaviour of Vanyar. “I believe the Teleri have said they will not sail to Middle-earth again, and the Vanyar do not wish to wait. The Vanyar do have several Maiar with them. Perhaps they have some technique to smooth the path? Or perhaps Ulmo will aid them. But that’s what they are doing.” 

“Well. They will certainly have material for new poems by the time they get home,” Maglor said, pulling a face that was both impressed and horrified. 

Maedhros asked “What about Finarfin’s people? I hope the Noldor at least have more sense than to want to walk home. I am quite sure that those left alive of Fingon’s people will not wish to go that way again! Or will they stay here, east of the Sea?”

“They say there will be ships built in Ossiriand to carry all of the Eldar into the West — and any of the Moriquendi who wish to come,” Elrond said, a little awkwardly. 

“Do they?” Maedhros said, heavily. 

Elrond looked at him. “Eönwë means to summon all the Elves to come to Valinor. Everyone is going home.” He did not sound entirely happy about it. 

“But not us, of course,” Maglor said. He sighed. “We have unfinished business, anyway.” 

Elrond gave him a concerned look. “I am sure they will take Morgoth’s freed prisoners who owed their allegiance to the House of Fëanor, if they wish to go,” he said. “It wasn’t that anyone meant to abandon them here.”

“No. It was only that you and your Men were the only ones who were willing to come anywhere near us,” Maedhros said, bitterly, looking at the departing host moving off. He looked back at Elrond, and then to Celebrimbor and added, “For which, I offer my most grateful thanks — to both of you, and your Men.” 

“They are all young enough that they don’t remember anything but the War,” Elrond said, looking affectionately at the young men earnestly distributing packets of clothes and blankets. “They don’t recognise your banners, except as some relative of Celebrimbor’s. I confess, I am not eager to go off to some strange land in the West and leave them all behind — and Elros is even less happy about it: he’s having another polite argument with Eönwë now, or he would be here too of course. I hope there can be some compromise worked out. ”

“In the meanwhile, we had best try and get the rest of our people healed enough that they can walk away from here,” Maglor said, reaching for his harp again wearily. “At least they can do it with some food inside them, and wearing shoes, now. Thank you, Elrond.”

“We brought medical supplies,” Elrond told him. “They are in the last three wagons. And nobody will need these wagons back right away. I thought we could probably get some of the worst injured loaded onto them, once the clothes and food have been handed out.” 

Maedhros clapped him on the shoulder. “You are a true friend,” he said.

Elrond gave him an unhappy sideways look, and a tight smile. “Are you going to surrender?” he asked. 

“Are you formally asking for my surrender now, on behalf of the Valar?” Maedhros asked, in return. There was just a hint of tension about the way he stood, if you knew him well. 

“I haven’t been asked to,” Elrond said warily. “It’s not for me to speak for the Valar: I’m only here as a captain of the Edain, bringing supplies to Morgoth’s freed thralls. But I’d still like to know.”

“So would I,” Celebrimbor said. 

“I expect we shall have to,” Maedhros told them. “I hope we can arrange things so that those of our people who have been with us all along will not suffer for it. They will want to take us back to Valinor for trial, but I would like that to apply only to Maglor and myself. That gives me some bargaining to do, and so I would prefer to delay until things can be negotiated. No doubt Eönwë will know about that. But there will be time to make arrangements for all that later. ” 

“Really?” Elrond said, looking enormously relieved. “We were... worried.” 

“All the Silmarils are in the same hands now. We can talk to Eönwë, as we could not talk to Morgoth — and that is a stronger chance to follow than trying to fight the host of Valinor with our small handful of people. What did you say about the Edain? I hope there can be some compromise worked out? Well, I hope the same.” 

Maedhros lied very fluently that day, working with the Oath instead of against it for a change.  There was no choice at all, of course, he could do nothing else now that all three Silmarils had been taken by the hosts of Valinor, but it was impossible to tell by looking at him. Fëanor could see the lie for what it was, and from the look on his face, so could Maglor: all three of them were following a path that had narrowed now almost to a thread, a path that could lead them only onward.  

But Maedhros spoke with authority, and neither Elrond nor Celebrimbor was looking at Maglor, not until he had had time to arrange his face into a suitably resigned smile, anyway. 

It was easy to convince people of things they wanted badly to believe. 

Elrond had never known the exact words of the Oath, and he was young, for all his skill of mind, and not close to his cousins in blood. It was not surprising that the lie was hidden from him. Celebrimbor had both the knowledge and the ability to see, if he had looked for it, but Celebrimbor had not seen Maedhros and Maglor tormented by the Oath as Elrond had, and he was overcome with desperate hope. 

Elrond smiled over at Maglor, looking much happier now. “I’ll help with the healing, if you can show me what to do. You didn’t teach us much about that, though we have had to learn a thing or two about it since.”

“Another major oversight,” Maglor said, looking around so as not to meet Elrond’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear you have found a way to address it. And here is more practice for you. Celebrimbor?” 

“I’ll do my best,” Celebrimbor said seriously. “I can’t say I’ve made a great study of it.”

“You had best come with me then,” Maedhros said. “I will show you what I can. Elrond can go with Maglor. It will go much easier with four of us.” 

“It’s so good to see you again,” Elrond said, diffidently, to Maglor. 

“And you,” Maglor said, turning to the first of the thralls without looking at him. Nothing reflected in his mind but a very suitable princely concern for the well-being of his people. “Best not to call on something that would be unwelcome if it answered, though. Not until everything has been negotiated, as Maedhros puts it.” 

“Of course,” Elrond said at once. Elros might not have said the same. Elros might have asked the difficult questions. But Elros was not there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The allegation that the Vanyar host walked home across the Grinding Ice is supported by other sources, and may have been taken from an older work now lost.


	22. Silmarils and the Oath of Fëanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new name for the thralls of Angband, a conversation with Celebrimbor, and the terrible ending. 
> 
> Many thanks to lordnelson100 for help with the last two chapters.

Long ago when this land had been called Thargelion, there had been a small town here, a good distance from the new coast, hidden away quietly in the foothills of the Ered Luin. There was little left of the towns and villages of Thargelion: they had burned and toppled when the earth had shifted.  Some of what remained was laced with memories that were terribly dark. 

But this town had been abandoned by Elves and Men who had fled after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  It had been lonely and forlorn, but when Maedhros spoke gently to it, it could still remember brighter days, and offer shelter to those who were most hurt: fallen roof-tiles shivering back into place, broken shutters and cracked walls shrugging themselves back together.  The art of memory was one for which a body was no great advantage, and so Fëanor worked quietly through the autumn days to call the work of Caranthir and his people back to wholeness. If anyone wondered at it, they were only surprised that Maedhros was so tireless and so thorough. 

They set up shelters of wood and canvas laced with word of enchantment beside the town to make extra space, just as they had done so very long ago upon the shores of Lake Mithrim far away in Hithlum, now lost beneath the waves. There were more people here in this one place than there had ever been when Thargelion was at its height: the remnant of the March was tiny, but it was more than one small town could hold. 

The Ered Luin had changed shape now, and the tall peak of Mount Dolmed was almost unrecognisable from the rockfalls that had done such damage to the Dwarf-cities. But the stream that had watered the little town was still there, if not quite in its old course, and the woods and fields were growing green again.

The divide between those who had endured captivity in Angband, and those who had only fought to destroy it was a very wide one.  They called themselves the thrall-noldor: a term that seemed to have been in widespread use in Angband, for not only did the Noldor call themselves that, but those of the Sindar of the March who had returned to the Star of Fëanor under Thangorodrim did too. 

The thrall-noldor were, as they must be, distrusted.  They expected it. Most of them had encountered people under the Enemy’s hand before ever they were taken captive.  They knew that anyone who had been in Angband must be watched, and were pathetically grateful not to have been turned away.

They did not trust one another much. Most of them did not even trust themselves. 

Not long after they had reached the place, Maedhros and his personal escort were out in the foothills of the Ered Luin. They were still short of workmen, since the thrall-noldor could not be given any sharp tool save small knives for eating with, and so Maedhros and the guards set around him for his safety were cutting the wood, and those thrall-noldor strong enough to help were carrying it to where it was needed. 

“This seems absurd,” Maedhros said abruptly, to someone who had long ago been one of his own people in Himring, now pale and bowed.  The thrall-noldo was lifting up a handful of stakes, already lopped and bound together, to carry back to the camp. “The Enemy is fallen, and I was a prisoner in Angband myself.  If you are not allowed an axe, Drevedir, there is no justification for me to have one either.” Angruin, behind him, grimaced and shook his head.    
  
Drevedir gave him a tired look. “Yes, lord,” he whispered harshly, head down.  The orcs had cut into Drevedir’s throat and taken most of his voice, though they had at least left him his tongue. He did not move to take the axe that Maedhros held out, and Fëanor was torn with grief to see one of his own people so cowed. Drevedir had been in Angband only for the one hundred and fifteen years of the Sun since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. There were those of their company who had been there much longer. 

Maedhros looked at him and waited patiently. After a moment, Drevedir made an effort to look up and managed to meet his eyes for a moment. “Please don’t give me an axe, Lord,” he pleaded. 

“Because you think you might ... not use it on the trees?”

Drevedir’s eyes ran sideways to Angruin and to Varyar, both armoured and carrying swords and looking at him doubtfully, for all that Angruin had known him as a child, and Varyar was only three years older and his cousin.

“I hope not,” he whispered. “I can’t feel his eyes on me any more.”  

“I don’t think they are,” Maedhros said, making an effort to sound reassuring.  “The Enemy’s will broke when the mountain fell, and I have looked into your mind. I trust you to use an axe, Drevedir, as much as I can trust myself.” 

Drevedir held one hand out a little, then pulled it back abruptly and set it on the bundle of stakes.  He might not have Morgoth’s dream of fear laid over him, but there was no question he was afraid. “I don’t want thrall-noldor to have axes,” he muttered. “You can’t be sure who is under his hand, who his eyes are watching.”

“Makes sense,” Angruin said, rather loudly and incautiously. “Lord, you’ve always said they can’t be trusted.” 

Maedhros sighed and for a moment he looked almost as tired and worn as Drevedir.  “And yet, Angruin, you are a kinslayer three times over, Varyar twice, and I most of all, while Drevedir only fears it ... Very well Drevedir. No axes, not yet.” 

He straightened and lifted his voice, so that all those around could hear clearly. He could have been their leader a hundred and fifteen years ago again, his voice filled with confidence and power.  “Drevedir, I will hear your counsel. And I will take the name  _ thrall-noldor _ from you, and in return I shall give to you and to all those returned beyond hope, a new name.You shall be called the Released.”    He gave Angruin and Varyar and the others of his guard a pointed look, and they bowed, while all around you could see the Released stand a little straighter as they heard the name that their lord had given them.  

Fëanor watched them, as they carried wood slowly, painfully, to where it was needed.  And it seemed to him that although Drevedir and his fellows were indeed released from the spell of dread that the Enemy had once laid upon them, Maedhros himself was not. Darkness lay upon him, even as he tried to give his people new purpose. 

It had been Fëanor himself who had forged their Oath out of fear and anger, who had quenched it in Darkness Everlasting and set it with jewels of hate. So it had survived their Enemy’s fall. 

Fëanor had made the thing, thinking it a tool to strengthen quaking hearts.  He had given it to his children, and proudly, willingly, they had taken it up, as they might have taken a coronet or armring he had made for them. Now it had twisted into a chain about their necks, a serpent in the mind.

Only one of the House of Fëanor had escaped it, and he was the last of that House.

******

Celebrimbor had been riding grimly to and fro from the camp of the Sons of Fëanor, down into the new settlements that Gil-galad was establishing along the wide new waterway that was beginning to be called the Gulf of Lune. There he spoke with the High King, with Eönwë and with Finarfin, and with their stewards, about supplies of nails and tools, about bedding and clothes and places on the new ships for those people of the House of Fëanor who needed them.

On a cold grey day when the bare blackthorn trees that lined the path up to the camp were dewed with shining droplets, he rode up and found Maedhros returning with a new-killed deer.  The deer were coming back over the mountains, now that the skies were clear of the Enemy’s vapors and new green grass had sprung up across the land that had been dark. 

Two grey deerhounds were running at his horse’s heel, but otherwise he was alone, save for Fëanor moving silently with him, and if they had gone up into the hills towards the ruins of Belegost while hunting, and had reached out with the art of mind for anyone who might still be trapped there, and found nothing, well, that was only what they had both expected. 

“Any luck with your own hunting?” Maedhros asked Celebrimbor, turning his horse around to join Celebrimbor on the path.

“A little. Círdan and Eönwë have agreed that there should be places on the ships for all who wish to go home to Valinor, even those of the House of Fëanor who fought in Doriath — as returning travellers, not as prisoners going to judgement. I think the King... Gil-galad, I mean — will probably agree too, once he has thought about it, and Finarfin will agree if Gil-galad does. “

“But not for those who were at the Havens?” 

“Do any of those who were at the Havens wish to go?” Celebrimbor asked him, not answering directly. 

“Probably not. They were fools enough not to leave us then, so very likely they will go on being fools now. There are a few with family in Finarfin’s host, or back in Valinor, but... well. Not everyone is as determined as you are not to hold on to old griefs. At any rate, none of them have said they want to go home.”

“In that case, I think I’d rather not bring it up, in case it causes another round of arguments. We seem to have enough of those already.”

“Fair enough, ” Maedhros said, guiding his horse up a slope that had once been set with stone steps, but now was almost covered in a litter of old brown beech-leaves. 

“I'm glad to hear you don’t think I’m a fool,” Celebrimbor said.

“Who could think that?” Maedhros said lightly. “You must be the single least foolish of the house of Fëanor. You had the sense not to take the Oath, for a start.”

“I could have tried to persuade them. In Nargothrond. If Orodreth had led his people out to join Fingon in that last battle... ‘By treason of kin unto kin’ the Doom of the Noldor went, and I gave in to it. I should have trusted you. Staying out of the battle bought them only a handful more years anyway.”

Maedhros said, “Is that what has been bothering you? You could have trusted Fingon... but very likely we would have failed anyway, with or without Nargothrond. I don’t blame you for Orodreth’s decision, Celebrimbor. Or for yours.”

“I fought against you, though,” Celebrimbor said, frowning.

“I can’t argue with your choice at the Havens. I have spent enough time since, arguing with mine.”

“Why did you?” Celebrimbor burst out. “Why the Havens? Doriath... I was half-expecting Doriath. I thought, my father — and Celegorm —  ” 

“They argued for it, but don’t give them all the blame,” Maedhros said. His voice was calm, but his horse was dancing under him, picking up on its rider’s tension. 

“I couldn’t believe it, when I saw you,” Celebrimbor said, in a low voice. “You know, when people asked if the Sons of Fëanor might threaten the Havens, I told them, no. My father is dead, I told them. Maedhros would not, I said, even for a Silmaril. I thought it was Morgoth, when I heard the alarm. I thought he must have killed you all, and come down on us out of the North in flames. I grieved for you, as I went for my sword. But it was you. Stalking through the flames with a bloody sword, like a nightmare that was real.” 

“I am a nightmare,” Maedhros said, bitterly. “There’s no question about that. I can’t explain it and I certainly can’t excuse it. All I can tell you is that it looks like a nightmare from the inside, too.”

They rode on in silence for a little while before either of them spoke again. A thin light rain had begun, which caught in tiny droplets on Celebrimbor’s cloak, and dampened Maedhros’s red hair to brown. It was hard to see far ahead through the mist, making the path seem an oddly private place, in which only Maedhros, Celebrimbor and the horses seemed solid and real. 

“I promised them, after the Havens, that I would only ask them to go against Morgoth, not their own people.” Maedhros said, breaking the silence at last. “We can do nothing more to help them, and a prince who can do nothing for his people is no prince. I am... I am concerned that I may put them at risk if we stay here, Maglor and I.” 

“You can’t be thinking of attacking a Host of Valinor for the Silmarils,” Celebrimbor said flatly. “Eönwë can’t give them to you, he doesn’t have the authority.” 

“They told you that?”

“I asked,” Celebrimbor said. “Of course I asked! What do you take me for?”

Maedhros considered him carefully. “A decent person, in an awkward situation,” he said, at last. “But as for Maglor, and for me — well, we only have one path we can take. We’ve been thieves since Alqualondë, anyway.”

Celebrimbor scrubbed the rain off his face, frustrated. “You can’t be suggesting I should join you? Maedhros, what is  _ wrong _ with you? You don’t seem completely mad. ”

“It would be easier if I were. And you know what is wrong with me, really, if you think about it. But no, I’m not asking that. Nobody else has to get hurt, and there is no reason for us to make anyone else walk further into the dark with us. If we leave, will you take care of the camp? Make sure that those who need to go home get there safely. Keep an eye on the rest, and try to keep them out of trouble?“

“You assume that I am not returning to Valinor myself,” Celebrimbor said. 

“Well, are you?” 

Celebrimbor’s mouth tightened in annoyance for a moment, then he shook his head. “No. No, I am not. There’s a lot to be done, here in Middle-earth, and I have ideas about how to do it. Gil-galad is staying too, and I work well with Gil-galad, most of the time. And Galadriel: she does not wish to sue humbly for pardon for the rebellion of the Noldor or be punished for it, and nor do I.”

“I was sorry to hear of that,” Maedhros said with a twist to the corner of his mouth.  “It seems unfair — both to you, and to Galadriel.”

“I am not particularly eager to go home in disgrace, last of the infamous House of Fëanor,” Celebrimbor said glumly.  “Though, of course, if you and Maglor would only surrender, they would all be so busy looking askance at you, they probably wouldn’t even notice me.”

There was another silence. Celebrimbor looked ahead into the mist. He sighed. “Oh, all right. I will look after your company of kinslayers. My own people won’t like it, but I’ll make it work somehow. I will try to keep them out of trouble as best I can. Or at least, I will, if they will listen to me. Why me, anyway? Elrond must know them much better than I do.”

“You are the last of the House of Fëanor,” Maedhros said. “Elrond and Elros have enough to do with the Sindar and the Edain. In any case, this is not Elrond’s concern. He was their friend, but they are kinslayers: you know what that means. They need a lord, not a friend. Elrond deserves to be free of them. Free of all of us. Of course our people will listen to you. But in case they forget, I will remind them who you are.” 

Celebrimbor looked as though there was a sour taste in his mouth. “Maedhros. Talk to Eönwë before you make any rash decisions. He’s not unreasonable. He’s not planning to put you in chains next to Morgoth!”

“I will send him another message, before doing anything else,” Maedhros told him, looking distant, as they came up the last slope through the trees, into the camp at last. “We always do that. We always send a message, first.”

* * * * * 

Their people, particularly those who had been with them at the Havens, were not happy to see them go. But they would obey their orders: to stay where they were, and to obey Celebrimbor in all things. 

Maedhros had lied to them, too.  He spoke of inevitable surrender, and made them believe he meant it; told them Celebrimbor could keep them from the judgement of the Valar, and that it would be a great comfort to their lords to know them safe and living in peace. That last part had enough truth to it to make the rest seem true as well.  They were weary, besides, after long years of war. Like Celebrimbor, they wanted desperately to believe that peace was possible. 

But in one respect, he had been honest. Maedhros had promised that he would not lead them into kinslaying again, and he did not. 

They stood on a hilltop, side by side, on that chill spring night under the brilliant stars, and they looked down on the great camp of the host of the Noldor. It was bright with lamps, spread far along the coast, with the dark sea beyond it sighing to itself. 

Two left, of all the fair and deadly host that had come to Middle-earth pursuing Morgoth the Enemy, the thief and murderer. Two, set against all the power of the host of the Valar. Two, still swift, still deadly, for all that they were very weary, and Fëanor’s spirit, silent, watching.  

“Are you sure?” Maglor asked. 

“No. No more than when we talked of it before. But it still seems to me that either we try one more time here, or....take the risk of bringing war to Valinor,” Maedhros said, unhappily. 

“You still feel there is no hope they might still give us the Silmarils freely, if we surrender, submit to judgement, go into the West and wait?” Maglor asked. “Even though Eönwë said we had lost the right to them... They might still come back to us, in time.”

“They might. But do you honestly believe they will? And if they don’t, then... I’m sorry, Maglor. I can’t fight the Oath again. Not until the ending of the world,” Maedhros’s voice sounded strained, almost panicky, “I would rather be back on the cliff at Thangorodrim, than that.”

Maglor put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and held him. 

Maedhros looked at him, his face outlined dark against the stars, trying to explain. “At least on Thangorodrim, there was no choice. No way I could weaken, and end up choosing to tear the world apart again. It would be one thing if I thought they would imprison us, but they won’t, not for ever, you know they won’t. They will be merciful, and then... I can’t sail back to Alqualondë, knowing what we carry with us.”  

He did not look at Fëanor as he said it.  He made no acknowledgement of him at all, and yet Fëanor knew he was not speaking only to his brother, and he was torn with grief. 

“No,” Maglor agreed, in that clear singer’s voice. “There must be no more Alqualondës. No more Doriaths, no more Havens of Sirion. To the everlasting darkness doom us if our deed faileth, we said. But if it waits for us either East or West of the Sea, then let us follow the Oath and fail. We’ll find a sure road there, if we must, and better fast than slow.”

Fëanor watched them, deeply troubled. Why ever had he made the penalty of the Oath worse for the oathbreaker than it could ever be for the thief? There were two answers. The one he knew, and had known for years, was that it was because he knew the oathtakers, and had not trusted even himself. He had not understood what he had asked them to do at all.  But the other answer was to do with the Enemy, and with Darkness Everlasting, and the chain that he had set about his own neck. 

They stopped on the outskirts of the great camp of the host, to steal clothes, making their way by a back way in, an inconspicuous way. Thieves indeed, in stolen gear, marked with Finarfin’s badges. 

They walked quietly through the camp, avoiding the rings of armoured guards, the fences and the gates that guarded the place where Morgoth lay captive, bound by the chain Angainor.  Celebrimbor had said the Enemy was being kept in waiting for the ship that would take him into the West, to be judged there by the Valar, but if they had not known that already, they would not have guessed.  He who had been the Enemy of the World was silent, unheard, the might and horror of him barely to be felt any more, barely distinct from the darkness that ran through all of Middle-earth. 

Two more Noldorin soldiers going off duty in the dim morning light, hoods over their heads against the damp sea-mist, gloved and booted against the cold. If one of them was carrying a harp, there was nothing so unusual about that, and if one of them was taller than most, well, there was nothing to attract the eye to him apart from that. 

The Silmarils were not so heavily guarded as the Enemy was. Why should they be? They were hardly likely to escape. The jewels were in a tent, not far from the banners that announced Eönwë’s quarters. It had not been hard to find them. Their presence glowed with a light that could not be mistaken for anything else, a soft distinctive radiance that could be seen from a distance, even through the canvas. 

There were only two guards. They were relaxed, playing at dice, and not expecting any attack. One of them barely had his sword out of the scabbard before he died under Maglor’s sword, but the second had just time to shout a surprised, desperate warning before Maedhros cut his throat. 

Could they have taken the gems without killing for them? Perhaps, but once swords are drawn there are no certainties. Fëanor’s sons were more practiced at dealing death than any guard, faster and more resolute.  The guards had hesitated. Maglor and Maedhros did not.

Maglor scooped the jewels into a bag, but already they could hear running feet and cries of alarm from outside. They pulled the tent-flap aside and dodged through it, but they were only perhaps twenty paces from the tent, before they were surrounded by a ring of drawn swords. 

Beyond the first ring of defenders, more and more people were pouring from the tents and barracks, hastily coming to arms in the first light of dawn, cramming on helmets, pulling on coats. Out at sea, gulls were crying, and overhead the sky was turning blue. 

“Now for an ending,” Maedhros called to Maglor, and he pushed back his hood and let the cloak with Finarfin’s badge upon it fall, so that all could see the star upon his sleeve. Maglor did the same.  They circled, back to back, and the ring of swords fell back a little, and dismay came into the faces of the defenders as they were recognised. Even those who did not know much about the Sons of Fëanor knew that they were deadly killers. 

And now Fëanor was seized with doubt. How should he fight to defend his sons, against the people of his brother? His sons were serving his Oath, and yet... Fëanor was mortally tired of killing, too.

“Hold!” Eönwë, Herald of the Valar came rushing out, dressed in blue and gold with his long dark hair streaming, and the growing crowd parted to let him pass through. He ran forward and then stopped, his face full of horror as he saw what was happening. He looked for a long moment at Fëanor’s sons, meeting first Maglor’s eyes, then Maedhros’s and then he looked straight at Fëanor. 

Eönwë ‘s eyes went wide as he looked Fëanor up and down, and Fëanor felt as if he was somehow naked and unclean. The marks across his spirit, where Morgoth’s servant had held him back while Fingolfin fought, burned again. Eönwë was looking at them, and at the shadow of the Oath that coiled about all three of them. Was that pity in his face? This was appalling. Fëanor could not bear it. His spirit flamed out, bright and strong and Eönwë took half a step backwards. The expression on his face changed back to horror. 

“Back!” Eönwë called to the defenders, dismay thick in his voice. “Away from them! Back!” 

Maedhros lifted his sword in ironic salute to Eönwë . “We have taken what is ours, at last,” he said. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean...” 

And Maglor’s voice joined his, stronger, clearer and entirely without hope: 

“... brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man now born in Middle-earth...” 

Fëanor could feel himself being pulled into it too, the words of the Oath that they had made long ago, ringing out once more across the crowd, with a terrible power to it. He joined his voice to theirs, and it made an echo he did not recognise. 

“....neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin.  This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end!..”

“Enough!” Eönwë cried raising his hands, and there was such authority in his strong voice that it shook the ground, and bound them all, speakers and listeners, into silence, for a long, long moment. 

Almost all the listeners. For from the prison where Morgoth lay in chains, there came the sound of hideous laughter. 

“Enough.” Eönwë said, again. “You have taken what is yours, you say? But by your actions, you have broken your own claim. You have killed, and killed... even now, two more lie dead. I am filled with sorrow at what you have become! There has been enough death. Stand back. Stand back, all you Elves and Men of the West. Let them depart this place.” 

And the great host that was now all around stepped backwards, and made a wide path for them. 

Maglor glanced desperately at Maedhros, who shook his head. And together, Maedhros carrying the bag that held the Silmarils slung over one shoulder, warily, barely able to believe it, they walked away, along the broad street that led through the heart of the camp, through the crowds, which backed away from them, watching with bright and terrible eyes. 

They passed Elrond, white-faced and staring in horror by the roadside. Maglor met his eye for the briefest of moments before he looked away. No-one followed them. 

“Well, that went... unexpectedly,” Maglor said, when they were far beyond the camp and all the many watching eyes, and his voice that was usually so clear and strong was choked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, and his voice was full of despair. “Two more deaths; two Silmarils. Mercy that cuts sharper than a knife, and nothing else left at all.”

They went on walking, North again, almost without thinking, as if they had been travelling back to Himring, as if Himring were still there, still a refuge that they could turn to, and not simply a lump of rock half-lost in the sea-spray. 

What was left of the land west of the mountains narrowed and became broken, as they travelled, day, after day. It was marked with huge rocks upheaved by the sea, scarred with great gashes that led down into darkness. There was a foul smell, sulphurous and sharp. This land had not forgotten Angband yet. 

* * * * * 

At last they came to the long arm of the sea that stretched out into what had once been Lake Helevorn, with the ruin of tall Mount Rerir looming over it, where once a dragon had coiled among the cold stones. 

Where the hosts had passed south only a little while ago, already the soil was wearing away and the waves were hollowing out the land. Above them on the hillside, great rents in the rock puffed out smoke and sometimes even a little flame. 

“We could go up into the mountains a little and go further North that way,” Maglor said, frowning. “But where are we going, really?” 

“I don’t know,” Maedhros said, and he sat down on a rock and buried his face in his hand. 

“I suppose,” Maglor said, “We might as well have a proper look at them, after all this time.”

He knelt on the rocks next to his brother, took the bag and opened it. The light from the Silmarils was like evening on a summer’s day, but brighter. It was strange to see the light of the Trees again, gleaming out of the distant past onto this desolate, ruined shore. Maglor reached in, and picked up one of the gems. 

Then he swore, pulling his hand back in pain, and dropped it.

He looked up at Maedhros. “It burned my hand!” There was a wide red angry mark across his palm, bubbled and blistered at the edges, and the skin was torn where he had flung the stone down. Fëanor stared at it in shock. 

“Ah,” Maedhros said flatly. “I thought it might.” 

“You could have warned me!” Maglor found a rockpool and soaked his blistered hand. 

“They burned him, too,” Maedhros said. “Morgoth, I mean. Every time he wore his iron crown. You could see it, the way they hurt him. They abide no evil... I told him, that first day I was his prisoner, I stood there all defiance, and I told him that they would always pain him, because he stole them, because he killed for them, and because he deserved to burn. I wonder if he’s still laughing, back there in his chains.”

“So here we are at the end of the story. We’ve sold everything we had for two jewels we cannot touch.” Maglor laughed bitterly.

“One for me, and one for you.” 

Maedhros stood up, and picked up one of the Silmarils in his left hand. You could see it burn him almost at once, the flesh turning red, then black, but he did not drop it.  Fëanor stared, caught in immobility by horror. He held it cradled in both hands: the flesh hand and the silver one, and he walked up through the rocks, up onto the hillside that was falling into the sea, until he came to one of the great volcanic holes. The red light coming from inside mingled with the light of the Silmaril on his face. 

“I deserve to burn,” he said, although Fëanor, watching, was not sure if he said it loudly enough that Maglor could hear through the sound of the sea and the hissing of the fumes from the vents. And he leapt, down into the flame in the heart of the land, still holding the Silmaril. The flames roared up to greet him. 

Maglor, far too late, leaped to his feet and ran after him. He left the Silmaril lying there on the rock, beside his harp. Fëanor went with him. But Maedhros was gone. 

 

*******

It was a long time before Maedhros’s spirit came out of the rock. 

Maglor had retreated by then, back to the shore below. He scooped up the last Silmaril in the bag that Maedhros had used to carry it, and swung it in his unburnt hand. Then, with a wordless shout of fury, he flung it into the sea. Then he curled up, arms around his knees, watching the surging water. Fëanor could see his hands clenching, convulsive, and wondered if he was thinking of diving in to retrieve it, or simply throwing himself into the waves to be lost himself. Perhaps it was both at once.  He could feel the pull of the Oath calling to the stone himself, pulsing through the moving waves. 

Maedhros’s spirit was soot-black, and it moved haltingly, even though of course, it was only his body that could burn. His hand was still missing.

Fëanor looked on him and with a great effort restrained himself from pointless questions :  _ what did you do that for? _ he wanted to ask, and  _ if you were going to throw it away anyway, and go to Mandos, why not just take the ship _ ? 

Instead he said, _ I’m sorry I got you into this _ . 

Maedhros’s spirit did not seem to be able to speak, although clearly it perceived him, and it swayed in fear away from him. Fëanor could hear the summons to Mandos sounding, above the cries of the gulls, but Maedhros did not seem to hear it. He crumpled up on the rock, as Maglor had done, but less defined; a pool of sooty black that was already beginning to drift away like smoke. 

_ Oh, no _ , Fëanor said.  _ No. Don’t fade into nothing. You are so much more than just your Oath. So much more than Silmarils. I love you. Your mother loves you. Please _ , Fëanor said, first to Maedhros, and then more generally to the world around him.  _ Please _ . The summons faded, and was gone. 

He picked up Maedhros’s ragged, reluctant spirit and carried it down to the waves. Spirits had no weight, but this was like trying to carry smoke. It took all the discipline of Fëanor’s fierce spirit to hold his son together and get him there in more or less one piece. He could not see that it would be possible to carry him all the way across the water, even if, without the summons to follow, they were allowed through. 

He looked out across the water, at the gulls balancing on the wind.  _ You helped him once _ , he said, remembering. 

“The Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains,” That was what Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar had said to them, in that terrible voice, after Alqualondë. Fëanor had believed then that was the absolute truth. He had believed, too, having lost his own father to the Halls of Mandos, that it did not much matter. 

But then there had been the Eagle. The Eagle had come to Thangorodrim for Fingon the Valiant. But it had come to help him save his friend Maedhros, too. 

Fingon had gone to Mandos years ago.  Fëanor was sure of that, he had seen his empty and forgotten bones. Perhaps if Maedhros could only follow him, there might still be healing for him there. It was the only thing that might possibly help. 

_ You need to go to the Halls of Mandos _ , he said to his son, desperately.  _ Your brothers must be there already. _ It was true enough: Caranthir, Celegorm and Curufin, Amrod and Amras had all died far from Angband.  The call to Mandos had come for Maedhros; it would have come for them. But Maedhros was in no state to make that journey. His smoky spirit wavered and seemed about to drift away and vanish into nothing.

_ Fingon is there. He’ll be waiting for you.  _

That seemed to be the right thing to say. His son’s fraying spirit came together, just a little, and seemed to turn its head to look West across the water, silent. 

_ Please. _ .. 

One of the seagulls considered him from a rock, head on one side, yellow eyes bright. It was an ordinary gull of the seashore. Not an Eagle, not any great bird of meaning and doom. Just a seagull, with a green gummy strand of seaweed stuck to one yellow leg. 

And then it winked at him. And it came swooping in, in a swirl of grey and white feathers, to pluck the burnt and fading spirit from his arms and carry him away West, over the sea, flying low over the water but straight as an arrow. 

Fëanor stood there for a long time, even after even the sight of the dead could no longer pick out the bird against the grey Northern sky. 

* * * * * 

Fëanor had never been in the habit of praying to the Valar. He had talked to them sometimes, of course, but praying? It seemed an odd idea, like praying to a helpful neighbour, or to a cloud. But very occasionally he had prayed to the One, although Eru had never answered him in words. 

_ I take it back _ , Fëanor said now, to Eru, if he was listening.  _ I take it back, the Oath. If I could unswear it, then I would. _

He waited, but there was no reply.

_ I know it’s late. I should have seen it long ago. I should have seen it when first I saw Angband, and the Balrogs and their armies across the plain. Or if not then, when Fingolfin came out of the Ice, and I saw how much I had not understood him. Or when my sons began to die, and I knew I had driven them to their deaths. Or when Maedhros forswore the Oath and I saw it bite into him.  _

Fëanor thought, for a while, while Eru listened, or perhaps he did not listen at all. 

_ I should have seen it before Alqualondë. If only I had seen it before Alqualondë.  _

_ I can’t make it as if the Oath never was. But I can break it.  _

_ At least...  _ he remembered that he had been too confident, too many times. _ At least, I think I can. I swore to you, Eru. If you want this Oath kept unto world’s end, now is the time to say so.  _

He waited. The sea sighed on the rubble and broken rock. Far away, he could hear Maglor’s harp, playing one single note left-handed, over and over. 

_ Perhaps this is the world’s end. Or one of them, anyway. It would be very orderly, to design a world with only one end to it. Very precise. Mandos might design a world like that. But Mandos did not design the world. Would Eru make such neat designs?  _

He looked out to sea, into the west, where a great grey mass of cloud shining against the blue was casting shadows of infinite variety across the moving surface of the water.

_ Would even Manw _ ë _ , Lord of the Winds, or Ulmo, Lord of Waters, work to build a world so neatly, so mercilessly, that there could be only one ending to it?  _

_ When you really know how to make something, don’t you always learn when you can bend the rules?  _

He took up the spirit-sword, and considered it carefully, running invisible hands down the keen blade. 

_ I am a maker, too, Eru. And what I have made, I can end.  _ He considered for a while longer. _ Please? _ he added _.  _

Then he began to work with words, and song, and the fire of his own spirit, with the burning rivers of rock far below the ground, the winds above it, and the strength of the green waves, surging on the shore. 

And at the end of it all, the spirit-sword and the armour of his spirit was gone, and the Oath of Fëanor and his sons was undone into a thousand thousand black strings, like pieces of seaweed on the strand. And the sea came in and washed them all away, to tumble in the green tide and be lost forever. 

* * * * * 

Fëanor watched his last living son, for a little while, and he wept.  He had found the trick of weeping even in death at last, and it was sorely needed. 

Maglor was still sitting by the sea, looking at the water, still. But he was sitting with the harp on his knee, and he was at least picking out phrases now one-handed, groups of notes that flowed together like the waves. It was a desperately sad and lonely music, but it was music. 

There was nothing else that Fëanor could do, except to turn and leave him behind, free of his oath at last. 


	23. Postscript: Lindon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the end there's nothing left to do but tell the tale.

They were beginning to call it Lindon; the land west of the mountains, the land that had once been Thargelion and Ossiriand. It was not a wide land, compared with Beleriand of old, but then most of the inhabitants were not going to stay there long. There was a great deal of ship-building going on, when Fëanor came south again. 

Ships to take thousands of Elves home to Valinor — or home as far as it could be called a home, when many of them had never seen it. 

Ships to take the Men of the Three Houses of the Edain to the new island that was called the Land of Gift, that the Valar had made for them. 

Elros had been successful in his discussions with Eönwë about the need to reward Men for their aid in battle. He had, Fëanor heard, for it was much talked about, been offered the choice: to be counted among either Elves or Men.  

Elros had chosen Men, which was hardly unexpected.  The Valar had promised long ago that Elves would become weary, would fade before the younger race to come.  The Elves had been summoned to Valinor, to live under the hand of the Valar, while Men inherited the wide lands of Middle-earth and would be free to go out beyond Arda too.  

Elros had chosen the wider future and the brighter promise, for all that he would not live in Arda for long.  He would have time enough to heal the wounds of war and set his people on their path. In the new Land of Gift, the Elves of Aman would at least be permitted to aid him in that task.  

Fëanor kept clear of the camps along the coast. Although he had unmade the Oath, he was not eager to discuss it with the Herald of the Valar. 

He drifted east instead, along the wide waters of the great rift that had been carved through the mountains of the Ered Luin, to the new capital that Gil-galad was building there. Mithlond they called it, where the tall blue mountains reflected in the waters of the new River Lune. There was not much of it there yet, but it was interesting work to observe: both the planning and the building: better than nothing at all.

Elrond, rather to Fëanor’s surprise, had chosen the Elves, as his father and mother had.  But he seemed in no hurry to rejoin them in Aman. Elrond and Gil-galad were staying in Middle-earth.  The Valar had not quite forbidden that, or at least they had put no urgency upon their counsel to the Elves to sail into the West, though Fëanor wondered if the Valar knew that Gil-galad had begun the building of a city here upon the Hither Shore.  It seemed that he had in mind something more than only lingering for a while.

Celebrimbor had joined them in the new city of Mithlond, with the last remnants of Curufin and Celegorm’s folk who had followed him from Nargothrond, those who were left of the followers of Maglor and Maedhros, and even a few of the Released.  The name had spread about, and many of Morgoth’s freed thralls from all the Houses of the Eldar had taken it to themselves now. 

Celebrimbor seemed to have resolved to prevent his people from causing trouble with the other residents by working them and himself to exhaustion. They were far from the only workers building in Mithlond, but they were the fastest and, Fëanor thought, the most skilled. 

Warehouses, workshops and houses rose, and then the first of the towers, tall and white with gates of curling iron, wrought like trees, like flowers, birds or even dragons. Elaborate stone quays were planned and built for Círdan’s ships, and then re-planned when tides proved more unpredictable than had been expected.

Fëanor observed the work, but found he had little taste for intervening in it. His Enemy was gone across the Sea to judgement, and his greatest works were gone too. It was hard to bring himself to care for building towers for a High King who was known to dislike the very name of Fëanor.  

In Mithlond, Celebrimbor alone still wore the star of Fëanor, but he did not use it to sign his work. Nobody did. Celebrimbor’s people wore the winged sun of the House of Finwë, with no lord’s badge to mark them out. 

Nobody spoke of Fëanor’s sons, save as a past evil, now vanished like Morgoth himself. 

Only, once, some years before the Edain set sail for their new island kingdom of Númenor, Fëanor was there when Celebrimbor came to Elrond about some business of the city. He found Elrond hurrying away, dressed for riding, with a pack slung across on one shoulder. 

The look he gave Celebrimbor, and the glance to the badge he wore, was so guilty that even Celebrimbor, caught up in plans and drawings, and like his grandfather, no great observer of people, noticed it, and came to a conclusion. 

“You’re going to look for them, aren’t you?” he asked. 

“I might be,” Elrond said, guardedly. “I have to go up to Forlond, anyway. Some quarrel that has flared up between the Sindar and the Gondolodrim ... Gil-galad asked me to look into it. I thought I might ride a little up the coast from there, perhaps. Just for a day or so.” 

“It’s not that... There’s been no word of them?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Elrond said. 

“What will you do, if you find them?” Celebrimbor asked. 

“I don’t know. I won’t know, unless I do find them.” 

“I’m sorry, Elrond,” Celebrimbor said, earnestly. “If I’d thought they would... I’d have stopped them, if I’d only understood in time. I thought it was over.”

Elrond looked at him, began to smile, and then thought better of it. Fëanor could see that he was thinking of Celebrimbor trying to stop his two eldest and most deadly uncles from doing exactly as they wished. 

Fëanor could have stopped them. Fëanor had not tried. 

“We all thought it was over,” Elrond said. He looked curiously at Celebrimbor. “Do you always apologise to everyone when they are mentioned?”

“Of course. It helps some people feel better. And it seems that someone should.”

“But none of it was your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Celebrimbor looked miserable, but he went on speaking with determination, as if carrying out a penance, one that he of all people had not earned. “It is my House. I was at Alqualondë. And the guards watching the Silmarils. I should have known.”

“So should I,” Elrond said, looking grim. Then he shrugged. “Perhaps if I had spoken to Eönwë before, and made him understand how the thing tormented them... Eönwë understood the horror of it, when he saw them; that’s why he let them go. Although I’m not sure that was kind, either. Maedhros would not have let someone go off in pain like that, he would have ended it, one way or the other. I thought that they would see there was no choice but to surrender to the mercy of the Valar, and that the Valar would help them. Then they could go home and find better healing in Aman than they could hope to find in Middle-earth. I didn’t think they would lie to us like that. I thought I knew them. I thought the Valar all-knowing and all-wise, too. Stupid of me on all counts.” He sighed. “Too late now. Anyway you don’t need to apologise to me.”

“Do you think.” Celebrimbor stopped. “Do you think it’s safe for you to go after them on your own? Maedhros all but told me he wouldn’t kill for the Silmarils again. And then he did it anyway.”

“It’s a risk I’ll take,” Elrond said, eyes bright and face determined. It was clear he’d thought about it. “They already have the other two. I hope and pray that is enough. But if it comes to it, and I find they are still tormented by the Oath, enough to turn on me, then I will offer to go to Aman on their behalf, to the Valar and my father, and beg them for pity and for mercy and the return of the third Silmaril. ” 

“You’d do that?” Celebrimbor said, amazed. 

“It’s why I need to find them. One of the reasons, anyway. That and asking why. Although I suppose I know the answer to that one, really. And then shouting at them for a while, perhaps. ” 

Celebrimbor gave a frustrated nod and sigh. “I am with you on that last point.  I too have a considerable number of things I would like to shout at them.”

“I imagine you must,” Elrond said. He looked at Celebrimbor’s star again, and and gave him a long thoughtful look. “You haven’t thought of making yourself another badge?  It can’t be easy wearing that one still.”

“It has never been easy,” Celebrimbor said. “It was not easy in Nargothrond, or in the Havens, or on Balar. But the tale of the House of Fëanor was more than only doom and death and I believe that I can make it be more than that again.”

Elrond gave him warm smile, which faded into a speculative look. “You’d better hope their Oath has been satisfied with two. If the third is needed then I’m making you come too, to show me who to talk to. I doubt it would be a decision for my parents alone.” 

“No,” Celebrimbor said firmly, as Fëanor had expected. “Not even for you, Elrond, and certainly not for them. If the last of the House of Fëanor sailed into Alqualondë, demanding the Silmaril, they’d think I’d gone mad and taken you prisoner myself. It would probably start another war.”  He thought about it for a moment. “I could write you an introduction to Finrod. He has returned from death, his father told me. Finrod knows everyone and even after everything, I think he’d probably help them if he could. And I wish you good luck searching. Though — I don’t think they will want you to find them.”

“I’m not inclined to worry about what they want,” Elrond said, bleakly. “If they wanted consideration, they should not have lied to us. You haven’t heard anything? Perhaps from their supporters among your people?”

“No. If I had heard anything at all from them, I would have told you, and the High King.” Celebrimbor assured him “Having me and my people here is awkward enough for Gil-galad anyway. And you, of course. I know it makes the Doriathrim uneasy.”

“It does. But so many things make them uneasy,” Elrond said wryly. 

Celebrimbor said, “Those who were with them to the end are watched. I don’t believe my uncles would run mad and attack Mithlond for no reason, or that Carnil or Telutan or Angruin would be foolish enough to aid them if they did — but I can see why people who saw them at the Havens worry about it. I’ve been wrong about them before; guessing what they would do and wouldn’t. I can’t risk that again.”

“I suppose not. Sorry, Celebrimbor, I must go. I am expected in the Forlond before nightfall... Can you leave the plans here? I’ll look at them when I get back.” 

Fëanor thought for a moment of going with Elrond, then dismissed the idea. He had promised Maedhros that he would not speak with Maglor, and that promise he would keep.  

The living must not speak with the dead: he had known that truth since his mother had died, first of all the Elves in Aman.  Maglor was free of his oath, it would be best if he were free of his father too. 

* * * * * 

 

Probably it would be best for him to leave Celebrimbor to his own devices too. But first he had a task to complete that he had set himself, prompted by a scurrilous rumour overheard in passing.  He had decided to write down a few of his observations, from the time of his death to the recapture of the Silmarils. 

The rumour was that he had burned one of his own sons to death at Losgar. How anyone could believe such a thing was a mystery: many of the people of Lindon must have seen Amras lying dead beside Amrod, on the shore of the Sirion, even though none of the people of East Beleriand had survived the war to tell of their twin lords and their long battle against the shadows. There was nobody alive to speak of them, save those who would not speak their names.

It was not surprising that the people who had lived at the Havens of Sirion had forgotten the defenders they would not acknowledge, even to remembering that there had been two of them, given what had happened afterwards. And yet, they had tried so hard. Nobody adds ‘ _ yet without them we would have died much sooner _ ’ to songs of fallen monsters.

Few had lived to tell of Maedhros, Maglor and the defenders of Ossiriand and Thargelion. Even Elrond rarely mentioned their names. There were few tales of the war in the East, unless it was talked of among the Dwarves. Nobody in Lindon talked much with them, either. 

Fëanor wrote the story in his own Quenya first, writing fast, with a passion to it. But when he read it back, it seemed to lack something. 

He decided to write it again, as an exercise, in the Sindarin dialect once spoken in Hithlum. It was fascinating to see how the change of language changed the meanings of things and formed the shape of events in the memory. 

Once that was done, he considered it for a few years. Then he wrote it out again, this time much more slowly, painfully, in the Sindarin that people spoke now in Lindon, a mingling of all the dialects of Beleriand, coloured a little in places by Quenya, and more obviously, by the speech of Men. It was a rather different story, the third time. 

He left it in the library that Elrond had built, tucked behind a shelf that held a stack of a thousand songs of the stars that had shone above the woods of Doriath.  Then he left Mithlond, and went away. 


End file.
